


Hells Belles Part 2

by janewestin, Teragram



Series: Hell and Back [2]
Category: Psych
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 13:56:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janewestin/pseuds/janewestin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teragram/pseuds/Teragram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lassiter tries to solve his own kidnapping but his assailants have more than just him in their sights</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hells Belles Part 2

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: spoilers for Mr. Yin presents, An Evening With Mr. Yang, and Yang 3 in 2D

  
**Chapter 1**  


_Santa Barbara, 1970_

There wasn't much at his cousin's garden wedding to interest a seven year old. Except the toad, of course. It was small and brown and felt cool and soft in the palm of his hand. Young Carlton Lassiter, looking dashing in his little suit and tie, had tried to share the joy of the brown toad with his mother. Her horrified grimace said it all, even if her harangue about the danger of touching toads, the outrageous cost of his suit and its tendency to stain, had then gilded the lily.

Realizing he needed additional supervision, his mother had shepherded him into her circle of friends and wiped his hands vigorously with her handkerchief. The ladies in their summer hats and flouncy dresses cooed over him approvingly.

“Such a little gentleman!” one of them exclaimed. “He looks ready to walk down the aisle himself.”

Carlton's mother beamed with pride.

“You want to get married someday, don't you?” A pink-cheeked woman in a large straw sunhat asked him.

“Yes ma'am,” Carlton replied shyly. “I think so.” The women smiled encouragingly.

“And who would you like to marry?”

Carlton hesitated, not sure if his answer was the right one. His mother's friends were looking at him with open-mouthed anticipation, clearly expecting to hear about some adorable secret crush.

“Answer the woman, Booker!” his mother ordered.

Carlton looked up at his interrogator and he spoke clearly and loudly, as he'd been taught to when addressing his elders.

“When I grow up, ma'am, I'm going to marry Sheriff Hank.”

The incident with the toad was immediately forgotten.

* * *

_Santa Barbara, Present Day_

It was times like this, when he found himself trying to eat a piece of toast while putting on his tie and trying to interest Charlotte in eating her oatmeal that he realized how difficult being a single parent must be. He had an 8:00 a.m. meeting with the Chief and some members of City Council. Little Charlotte, however, cared nothing about his schedule, and was far more interested in grabbing his tie forcefully with both hands.

“Give Daddy his tie,” Lassiter said gently. Charlotte continued to hold the tie in her vice-like grip.

“No!”

“Come on, sweetie. Give the tie to daddy. Please. Let go. Really. I have to go.” Leaving the house was becoming more and more difficult. Twice this week he’d arrived late, and he had a sneaking suspicion that people were beginning to talk.

“No. No no no.” Charlotte's face turned pink.

Despite being bent over and half choked, Lassiter tried to sound stern. He pointed a finger at Charlotte and spoke in his Head Detective voice. “Young lady, you hand that tie over right now. Or there will be trouble.”

“No!” Charlotte continued to grip the tie.

Shawn emerged from the bathroom and waved his hands at him in a shooing manner. “Out! Out the door. Don't be Porky Pig in Tick Tock Tuckered.”

“I'm trying to go,” Lassiter protested. After fifteen months of official dating, Shawn's nonsense was finally starting to make sense. He supposed he should be worried about that. He kissed Charlotte on the top of her head, hoping that the daily ritual of the goodbye kiss would make her release him, but to no avail. “She's like a limpet mine.” He gently pried open her hand and pulled his tie free. She leaned forward in the high chair and stretched her stubby fingers toward him.

“Aiiiiiiieeeeeee!” Charlotte cried desperately. Lassiter wasn't sure if she was crying “Daddy” or “tie.”

"Terrible twos three months early," Shawn observed dryly. "She's progressing by leaps and bounds."

Lassiter stepped back and smoothed his rumpled tie.

“She's very strong,” he said proudly. “With a grip like that she'd make a fine cop.”

“Or a great strangler,” Shawn said, picking her up and mirroring her frowny face back to her.

Lassiter raised a brow. “Let's hope for law enforcement.”

“Come on, Charlotta lotta lotta," Shawn said, setting Charlotte on her feet. "Let's build a little megablock city and then destroy it. Whaddya say?”

"Bock. Papa bock." Charlotte turned her attention to Shawn, apparently having forgotten the tussle with the tie.

Lassiter gave Shawn a quick kiss and opened the front door. He jumped. Standing on the stoop were two young men in black suits.

"Can I help you?" Lassiter asked, in his unfriendliest tone. No weapons were in evidence and neither of them moved to flash a badge. Instead, they gave him creepily identical grins.

_Not government then._

“We'd like to talk to you for a few moments about The Lord,” one of the men said.

 _Sweet baby Jesus_ , Lassiter thought. _Not today._

“I've got to go,” he said, scooping up his newspaper from the stoop on the way to his car, “but you can try my _boyfriend_.” He put heavy emphasis on the word, hoping to deter them. “He's always interested in crackpot ideas,” he muttered under his breath as he climbed behind the wheel.

* * *

It was 4:47 p.m. and Lassiter was basking in the warm glow of a job well done.  He’d completed his report on the Nordstrom’s flasher, and their stakeout that afternoon had nabbed the Alameda Plaza mugger.  That wily scumbag had led him a merry chase, but a flying tackle had finally brought him down on Anapamu St.  Personally, Lassiter felt they should be allowed to fire on a fleeing suspect instead of having to pursue them on foot.  But then, he reflected, if wishes were horses he would have had that pony he’d wanted when he was 12.

“Leaving, Carlton?” O’Hara asked.

Lassiter dropped the papers he’d been loading into his briefcase and jerked his head up.

“No. Maybe. Why? What have people been saying?”

O’Hara stepped back and gave him the look he had come to think of as “Hello, Crazy!”

“Nobody’s been saying anything,” she assured him. “But Chief Vick would like to see you before you go. That’s all.” She raised her palms and retreated to her desk.

Lassiter glanced at his watch. It was nearly five o’clock. Lots of people left work at five. He looked down at the scratch pad by his desk phone where he’d jotted down the list of items Shawn had asked him to pick up from the drug store. That would add another fifteen minutes to his drive home. If Vick kept him more than an hour he’d be lucky if he got home in time to tuck Charlotte into bed.

The blinds in Chief Vick's office were closed, which was both rare and significant. Lassiter steeled himself for a lecture about responsibility and knocked on the doorframe.

“Come in, Carlton," Vick said.

Lassiter sat, smoothing his tie. Getting called into Chief Vick’s office usually meant one of two things; either she had a case, or she had a concern about his behavior.  Based on the crease in her forehead, he strongly suspected it was going to be the latter.

 _So help me,_ he thought defensively, _if anyone has complained about my being late, I will grab them by the neck and stuff them into the body armour locker._

"What I am about to tell you is highly confidential." She folded her hands in front of her and fixed Lassiter with an icy stare. "Not a word of it must leave this room until _I_ decide the time is right."

_So this is not about my work hours._

Lassiter stiffened his spine, trying to look like a man who could be counted on in a crisis. Given Vick’s demeanor and the closed blinds, it must be big. Extortion. Conspiracy. Corruption. Murder. Maybe even a serial murder situation like the Yin/Yang killings. A man could dream.

“You can count on my discretion, Chief.” He had recently read a book on interrogation techniques through the centuries, and he imagined himself bravely refusing, despite the threat of the Scottish Thumbscrews or the Spanish Boot, to give up whatever vital secrets were about to be shared with him.

“I'm glad." Vick seemed to relax a little. “Carlton,” she said, “I've decided to run for Mayor.”

“Congratulations?” Lassiter was somewhat confused by the turn their conversation had taken. Was she campaigning? He hoped she wasn’t looking for volunteers. Or campaign donations. “I will definitely consider voting for you,” he added.  “What's your position on eliminating the parking meters on Garden Street?”

Chief Vick sighed. “The reason I called you in here is that running for Mayor would necessitate my stepping down as Chief.”

“Stepping down?” Lassiter repeated the words as if he were unsure of their meaning.

“Yes. And I'd like to put your name forward as my replacement. If you're interested.”

For a moment, Lassiter was so thrown that he couldn't answer. Then, as the meaning of her words dawned, a smile broke wide across his face.

“Damn right I'm interested!” This was the moment he'd been working towards since he'd first joined the SBPD. He'd climbed quickly from officer on the beat to youngest head detective in the department's history—owing largely, of course, to Chief Fenich's mentorship. He remembered the crushing disappointment he'd felt when Fenich had retired and Vick had been appointed Chief. This, though—this was his chance. He glanced around the room, taking in the space. Moving into this office would be the culmination of a life's work with the SBPD. He’d want to get rid of the plants and replace the armchairs with something less welcoming. A hard wooden bench, perhaps.

"Excellent." Vick smiled. "Main order of business out of the way, then.” She glanced at her watch and smiled conspiratorially.  “Now. If you’re done for the day I think drinks are in order."

Lassiter thought about the list of drugstore items on his desk. Shawn didn’t expect him until late anyway. He could certainly make the time to go for a drink. One drink. Just to assure Chief Vick that she’d made the right decision.

The mood at Tom Blair’s Pub was celebratory, as they were joined by Vick’s campaign team—two City Councilors, a lawyer and a publicist. But as they talked about Vick’s campaign strategy Lassiter couldn't help thinking about what being appointed Chief might mean for him, Charlotte, and Shawn. Better, more reliable hours. Higher pay. Charlotte could go to college without the worry of loans. A criminology degree, perhaps.

“Well, it was nice meeting you, Detective Lassiter,” Vick’s lawyer said. “Let’s hope we’ll be calling you _Chief_ Lassiter soon.”

Lassiter smiled and shook hands with the lawyer, Vick, her publicist and council supporters as they rose to leave.  He pulled out his cellphone. Shawn had texted him, adding toothpaste to his drugstore list.  As he was pulling on his suit jacket a red-headed waitress set a glass of scotch down in front of him.

“Compliments of Chief Karen Vick.”

Lassiter smiled and, spotting Vick paying their tab at the bar, raised his glass in thanks. Her smile was the last thing Lassiter could remember of that night.

* * *

When he opened his eyes the first thing Lassiter saw was a clock radio. The time was 6:45, and judging by the soft light creeping across the duvet, it was morning. The second thing he noticed were the handcuffs securing him to the headboard.

Panic rising in his gut, he scanned the room, looking for anything that would help fill the gap in his memory. The green and gold walls and the stationary by the telephone told him that he was at the Stonewall Hotel & Suites. As his mind cleared he realized that not only could he not remember checking in, but he couldn't remember much of the last evening at all. He remembered meeting with Chief Vick. He remembered having a drink at Tom Blair's Pub, and then...and then...nothing.

 _Priorities._ And the first priority was to free himself of _–_ _Damn!_ Lassiter thought as he recognized the restraints. The first priority was to free himself of his own handcuffs. He kneeled to get a better look at the headboard and realized he was naked.

 _Great! As if the situation weren't bad enough._ He tried to pull the cuffs free, but it was hopeless. Whoever had bought beds for the Stonewall Hotel had gotten their money's worth in durability. Lassiter tried to squeeze one hand out of the cuff and grimaced as the metal cut into his flesh. The cuffs were too tight. Through the pain and the anxiety, a litany of terrible thoughts pushed their way to the surface of his mind.

 _Shawn must be wondering where the hell I am._ It wasn't as if he were the type of guy who just randomly stayed out all night.

_Shawn might be thinking I stayed out all night on purpose. Not good._

Yes, things had been tense between them lately, but surely Shawn wouldn't jump to conclusions. Of course if he'd found someone handcuffed to a bed in a hotel he'd have drawn a few conclusions of his own—the most likely being that he'd picked up a pro who had knocked him out and robbed him. Looking at it objectively, the whole set-up felt like a robbery, except for the fact that he could see his wallet sitting on the nightstand. He could even see the edge of a bill inside.

 _Not robbery, then. Oh God!_ _Was this a sexual assault?_

He considered shouting for help. But that might bring hotel staff, maybe even a beat cop. If word of this got out, there was no way City Council would appoint him Chief. He’d be lucky to keep his job.  And he could imagine the field day the Courier would have with it.  They were still on his crap list after that Detective Dipstick article.

He took a deep breath and tried to think logically. He had to free himself from this mess, find out who did this, and deal with it quickly and quietly. And he had to do it soon. For all he knew some cannibalistic psychopath was preparing to dope him into submission and feed him slices of his own brain.

He looked at the phone on the nightstand. There was no way he could reach it with his hand. He rolled onto his back and reached for it with his feet. Using a skill that Shawn affectionately referred to as 'monkey foot,' he pulled the headset off the cradle and then painstakingly began to punch in the number to Shawn's cell phone, digit by digit. He'd gotten halfway there when he heard the sound of a keycard beeping in the lock.

Lassiter’s heart plummeted into his guts. Someone was coming in.

* * *

“ _It takes two to make a thing go right. It takes two to make it out of sight! It takes two...it takes two_...” Gus's cell phone sang insistently at him, waking him from a nightmare in which he played Carlton Banks in a musical version of Fresh Prince of Bel Air. He didn't mind the interruption.

He answered it. "'Lo?"

“Lassie didn't come home.” Shawn's voice was rough.

“What?” Gus squinted at the luminous display on his phone. It was 5:14 am. He glanced at Juliet: still asleep.

“Lassie didn't come home,” Shawn repeated, his voice rising slightly. “I called the station and they said he left nearly twelve hours ago. He's not answering his phone. Something's wrong.”

Gus slipped from under the covers, pulled on his flannel housecoat, and crept into the living room. “Did the two of you have an argument?”

“Of course not!” Shawn sounded indignant. Then, nervously, he added, “Well, we had a disagreement.”

“Are we talking a 'who drank the last of the orange juice' kind of disagreement, or are we talking an 'I hate you and wish you would leave' kind of disagreement?”

There were a few moments of heavy silence, then Shawn spoke. “We're talking a 'why don't you want to marry me?' kind of disagreement.”

“If Lassiter doesn't want to marry you, he's a fool,” Gus said flatly.

“Gus, I—”

“No, Shawn. I mean it. I'll say it to his face. What the two of you have is no less a marriage-type situation than what Juliet and I have. You stood by me on my special day and I'll defend your right to have—”

Shawn cut him off. “ _I'm_ the one who doesn't want to get married, okay? There. I said it. Happy now?”

Gus was silent for a few moments. “You're an idiot,” he said finally.

“Come on,” Shawn wheedled. “The world don't move to the beat of just one drum. What might be right for you may not be right for some.”

“You've been living together for a year,” Gus said, quashing the desire to ask 'What you talkin' about, Willis?' “You have a kid. What are you waiting for?”

“I know, I know.”

 “So you think Lassiter might be trying to teach you a lesson,” Gus ventured. “Showing you how much you need him?”

Shawn paused and Gus could hear him breathing. “I could see him not coming home to me,” he said finally, “but I can't see him not coming home to Charlotte. No way.”

Hearing the stress in Shawn’s voice Gus went to the window and peered across the dark yard to the house next door, shared by Shawn and Lassiter.  The living room windows were on.

“Do you need me to come over?”

“No.” Shawn said. “But I think we need to call in the Cavalry.”

“Okay,” Gus said, sighing heavily. “I'll wake up Jules and get her to track the GPS on his phone. Happy?”

“I won't be happy until he's back here in one piece,” Shawn said.

* * *

 

**Chapter 2**

As the door opened Lassiter kicked the covers over himself and tried not to panic. He heard the door close softly and someone moving in the suite. Then he saw O'Hara, gun pulled, pop her head around the corner and back again.

“Clear?” she called out.

“Yeah,” Lassiter said sourly. “It's clear.”

O'Hara holstered her Glock, hurried to his side and unlocked the cuffs. Lassiter rubbed his wrists and winced in pain.

“What the hell, Carlton?” she asked, looking at him with that same odd expression she'd had when he told her that he favored mandatory jail time for people who smoked near playgrounds.

“It's not what you think,” he said. He couldn't exactly blame her if she assumed this was a one-night-stand gone wrong. He'd have thought the same thing if he'd found some guy handcuffed to a bed. Nine times out of ten he'd have been right.

“Shawn's been calling.” The statement sounded like an accusation.

“What did you tell him?” Lassiter asked. He hated being treated like some John, caught with a hooker in the back of his SUV.

She looked pointedly at a chair in the corner. “I didn't tell Shawn where you were, just that I'd gotten a location and was checking it out.”

“That's a relief,” Lassiter muttered. He bunched the duvet around his waist. "Any chance you've got something I could wear?”

O'Hara blushed. “I think I've got some workout gear in the trunk.”

She returned with a pair of Gus's track pants and a t-shirt from the SBPD baseball team. It was better than nothing. At least it didn't look like something out of _Flashdance._

“You don't know how relieved I am to find you in one piece,” she said as he dressed. “When I saw where you were, I kind of panicked.”

“Why?”

O'Hara didn't answer for a moment. Then: "You're in room 1863," she said.

"Oh, Jesus." The last time he'd been here they'd been rescuing the waitress Mr. Yang had kidnapped and discovering that Shawn's mother was the serial killer’s latest victim.

He ran his hand over the bathroom door. They'd repainted, but he could still feel tiny bumps where they hadn't gotten all the glue of the killer's iconic symbol off the door.

He turned to O'Hara. “I want this room sealed,” he ordered. “I want CSUs in here combing every inch of this place.”

“What exactly happened?” she asked, finally making eye contact.

“I don't know yet. But whatever it is, I need to keep my name out of it for now. I don't want _anyone_ knowing how you found me.”

O'Hara nodded and furrowed her brow. “I can delay the paperwork, but it would help if I had an idea of what kind of crime we're investigating.” Neither of them mentioned Yin or Yang.

“Treat it as a kidnapping.” He reached for his wallet and badge, then thought better of it. “Bag those and get them checked for prints. I'm going to have a word with the management.”

O'Hara put a hand on his arm and this time her expression was all concern. “Are you okay, Carlton?”

He clenched his jaw and tried not to let his face betray the panic he was feeling. “I don't know yet.”

The manager was eager to work with the police. A review of the room records and a call to the night staff provided some of the missing details. Lassiter had arrived at 10:00 p.m., apparently intoxicated, with two young women. The night clerk described the women as a blonde and a brunette, thin, in their twenties, but couldn't say much more. The room had been secured with Lassiter's own credit card. Lassiter filled O'Hara in on what little he'd learned.

“I can put a stop to any charges on your card,” she assured him. “I'll have the room held until scene-of-crime is done.”

“Good,” Lassiter said. By which he meant _Thank you, O'Hara._ “When you're done here I need you to pick up the night clerk and have him go over mug shots, see if he can identify our suspects.” He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath through his nose. “And call Shawn and let him know I'm okay.” He fixed her with a full-force stare. “Do _not_ mention where you found me.”

“What are you going to do?” O'Hara asked, her face a mix of concern and disapproval.

“I need to go to the hospital.”

* * *

Tests. He'd had dozens of tests. Countless vials of blood; hair and urine samples—the list went on and on. His doctor was in his forties and bore a more than passing resemblance to Jack Klugman.

“Well, Carlton,” his Quincy look-alike said, “You've tested positive for gamma hydroxybutyric acid, or GHB.” The doctor’s voice was calm, as if the test result was merely an interesting curiosity, and not at all a key piece in Lassiter’s large, potentially career-destroying puzzle.

“I see.”

 _The scotch,_ he thought immediately. _Supposedly from Chief Vick._ Lassiter added Tom Blair's Pub to the list of places he needed to go.

"We generally see this in cases of drug-facilitated sexual assault,” the doctor continued, “although some people take it recreationally."

 _Yeah_ , Lassiter thought bitterly, _because who wouldn't want to feel like their life was falling apart?_

“There's no evidence of sexual assault,” the doctor continued, “although it'll take some time for the blood work to come back. In the meantime I'd like to administer some post exposure prophylactics.” When he saw no flicker of understanding cross Lassiter's face he added, “To reduce your changes of becoming infected, in case you've been exposed to anything.”

He looked at the chart and his brow furrowed. “It says here that you've listed your boyfriend as next of kin.”

“Is there a problem with that?” Lassiter relished an opportunity to vent some of the frustration and anger he was feeling, and encountering some homophobe was exactly the excuse he needed to go off with both barrels.

“Just that you might want to hold off on any unprotected sexual intimacy until your test results clear.” The doctor patted Lassiter’s shoulder. “Better safe than sorry.”

Lassiter didn't think that would be an issue. He wasn't sure if Shawn would even be talking to him after this.

* * *

Shawn's relief at seeing Lassiter walk through the door was tempered by his frustration and anger at having wondered where he was all night.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asked after gripping Lassiter in a 'thank God you're alive' hug and then stepping back to glare at him. “Is this about teaching me some kind of a lesson? Because that is _not_ cool. I refuse to live in an episode of Full House.”

Lassiter removed his tie. He was wired and antsy. He kept replaying the previous night in his head, hoping to find a lead. Having a fight with Shawn was not at the top of his to-do list. In fact, what he really wanted to do was take a long shower, put on a clean suit, and go back to work on the case.

“I wouldn't do that to you.” Lassiter couldn't meet Shawn's eyes. Somehow, he felt that if he looked at him now he would tell him everything, and it didn't seem fair to dump that on Shawn’s shoulders as well. It was the first rule of being a cop: protect the civilians, so they never have to know how bad things get out there. “You believe that, don't you?”

“Sure I do,” Shawn said, his tone undercutting his words. “This is my _believing you_ face.”

“I'm working on a kidnapping,” Lassiter said. “It got busy.” It wasn't exactly a lie, it just wasn't the whole truth.

Shawn folded his arms. “I called you, like, a dozen times.”

It was easy to figure out what he really meant: I was worried. I was scared.

“I didn't have my phone on.” Lassiter longed to take him in his arms but worried about where it might lead. He didn't want to cap his day from hell by giving Shawn whatever his abductors might have infected him with. “I'm sorry, I should have called and said I'd be late.”

“You're fifteen _hours_ late.” He could see it in Shawn's green eyes as they bored into him—he wasn't buying the excuse.

“I don't want to fight about it. I said I was sorry.” If being the bad guy was what it took to keep Shawn safe, then fine. He’d be the bad guy.

Shawn smiled, and his smile looked tired and desperate. He moved closer. “So how about making it up to me?” He glanced down the hall toward their bedroom. “Charlotte's going to be asleep for another hour at least.”

For a moment Lassiter thought about telling him everything. Then he steeled his nerve and took a step back. “I'm just not in the mood.”

Already he could feel the pain in his shoulders and arms from being cuffed to the headboard. But that was nothing compared to the emotional pain he knew was coming. Shawn wouldn't have much reason to stick around if the sex was taken out of their relationship. He'd already made it clear that he wasn't interested in getting married. Since that argument, Lassiter had figured Shawn was just playing house with him until he got bored. This situation might be the last nail in the coffin.

Shawn looked at the too-short sweatpants and the SBPD softball t-shirt, as if finally noticing the strange attire.

“What happened to your clothes?”

“They got...dirty.” Lassiter assumed that wherever his suit was, it was probably soiled by now. “Look, he added, “It's been a rough night and I have to go back in as soon as I’m showered and changed.”

Shawn's lips thinned. “I get it. I'm wiped out too.” He aimed a thumb over his shoulder. “I'm gonna hit the sack. Henry's coming by to watch Charlotte.”

"Okay."

Shawn paused in the hallway. “She missed you last night.”

Lassiter looked at the picture on the mantle from Charlotte's first birthday party—him, Shawn, Gus, O'Hara, and Henry standing protectively around her as she looked confusedly at the cake and its single flickering candle, tantalizingly out of reach.

“I missed her too,” he said heavily. _As in, I thought I might never see her again._

Shawn shuffled into the bedroom, alone, and Lassiter went into the bathroom to shower and take more Advil than he should. Which was when he remembered that he hadn’t made it to the drugstore.

* * *

“I think Lassie's having an affair,” Shawn said the moment Gus walked through the door of the Psych office.

Gus's forehead wrinkled as he set his briefcase on the floor by his desk. “What are you basing that on?” He'd gotten used to Shawn's crazy theories, like the time he'd been convinced that Henry was cross-dressing because he'd found a size large pair of black lace underwear in his hamper. Gus was certain that, just as the panties had a simple explanation (which seeing Henry walking hand-in-hand along the boardwalk with a curvaceous lady had supplied), whatever Shawn was basing his current theory on would turn out to be misconstrued.

“He's been coming home at odd hours.” Shawn leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling, as if it held the answer to Lassiter’s hidden motives.

“Cops work odd hours,” Gus said.  He sat at his desk and started his computer. “When Juliet and Lassie were working that jewelry heist case they stayed out until 4:00 a.m. for a week.”

“He _says_ he’d been working late,” Shawn said, folding his arms, “but he won't explain where he's been.” He pulled an almost empty bag of Corn Nuts from the detritus on his desk and dumped the remains into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

Gus looked at Shawn with sympathy. “Shawn, as much as they love us, we're not cops. There are some things we can't be privy to.”

“I'm privy to everything,” Shawn assured him. “I'm the privy council. I’m privylivious. I'm a brick—”

“—It doesn't mean anything,” Gus cut in. He walked over to the coffeemaker he’d bought after Shawn had nearly destroyed his humidifier trying to make an Americano. “It's certainly not proof he's having an affair. It’s not like he’s a player.” As far as Gus was concerned, he wasn’t even sure Lassiter understood what the game was. He frowned at the cold sludge in the carafe.  It looked like it had been brewed days ago.  He dumped it and started a new pot.

Shawn turned up his trump card. “ _And_ we haven't had sex in almost a week. Ever since he stayed out all night. Little Shawn is starting to get a rejection complex.”

“I did _not_ need to know that.” Gus looked thoughtfully at the coffee grounds as he spooned them into the filter. A lack of sex was traditionally one of the signs that something was amiss in a relationship. He turned the machine on and turned to face Shawn. “Have you asked him about it?”

“Yes, and he won't talk to me.” Shawn picked up a magazine and rolled it into a tube. He started swishing it through the air, as if trying to shoo his doubts away.  “He's giving me excuses about not being in the mood and having a lot on his mind. I know he's hiding something. And this Cosmo quiz says it's an affair!” He slapped the magazine down on the desk: Clarence Darrow closing the case.

“Suppose he _is_ having an affair,” Gus allowed, raising his voice over the bubbling gurgle of the coffeemaker. “Is he or she really a threat to you?”

Shawn's face fell. “Oh God. I never even thought about that.” He put a fist to his mouth. “He could be seeing a woman, couldn't he?”

Gus poured the coffee into a mug and held it out to Shawn, who shook his head. Gus took an appreciative sniff of the fresh brew, in what he liked to think of as his Tasters Choice moment.  “Would that be worse than him seeing another guy?” he asked, heading to his desk.

Shawn shook his head. “I don't know. Maybe.” Gradually the shaking switched to nodding. “Yes. Probably yes. I'm going to tentatively go with a yes on that.”

Gus tried to sound reassuring. “Honestly Shawn, I don't think you have anything to worry about. You guys have a kid together.”

Shawn sat on the edge of his chair, hugged himself and rocked back and forth. “ _He_ has a kid. Legally, I'm just some guy who lives there. Oh God, what if he replaces me with some manny with a six-pack and a butt you could bounce a quarter off of? Someone like Ryan Gosling, or The Rock, or Alcide from True Blood. Or some doe-eyed waif with huge—” Shawn made cupping motions at his chest. "Christina Hendricks, Gus. What if she starts seeing someone like her?”

“—There's no need to panic, Shawn,” Gus cut in. “You don't even know for sure that there's anything going on.”

“There's _something_ going on. I can feel it.” Shawn thumped a fist against his chest. “Right here. Like a little voice, crying out.” He spoke in a croaky, ethereal voice, “Shaaaawn...Lasssie is sleeeeping arooound...”

“If only you were a detective,” Gus said sarcastically, “and could discover the truth before having a panic attack and making a bunch of life-ruining decisions.”

Shawn nodded and clapped his hands loudly, as if dispelling the ghostly voice in his head. “You're right, Gus. Let's get to the bottom of this. You and me, buddy. Amigos. Simon and Simon. Starsky and Hutch. Rockford and..uh…” Shawn frowned, stymied by the fact that Jim Rockford often worked alone. “You get the idea.”

Gus smiled reassuringly. “I'll help you look into it. First thing tomorrow.”  He looked at his calendar. “Today we have that thing with the guy and the dog.”

Shawn sighed.  “I’m not in a working mood,” he complained. “I’m in a sit-in-the-dark-and-eat-three-cartons-of -Haagen-Dazs mood.”

Gus raised an eyebrow. “Lassiter isn’t the only one with work to do, you know. I’m still paying off the back veranda we installed on the house.”

“Fine.  I’ll work. But my heart won’t be in it.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Gus offered.  “Why don’t you run over to the 7-11 on Montecito and grab some comfort food.  We’ll stash it in the fridge, solve the case with the guy and the dog, and then come back here for wallowing.  I’ll even watch _Miss Congeniality_ with you.”

“Really?” A small smile crept across Shawn’s lips.

“Really.” Gus smiled until Shawn had thrown on his jacket and left, then his face turned serious. He picked up his phone and called a friend from college who had a law practice in Santa Barbara. Shawn was probably overreacting, but one of them had to prepare for the worst-case scenario. And investigating your legal standing in the event that your same-sex relationship broke up was what best friends were for.

* * *

 

**Chapter 3**

Gus sat, bouncing Charlotte on one knee, while Shawn rummaged through the closet. In between the first and second pint of ice cream, Shawn had decided that his first order of business was to follow Lassiter and find out what was at the root of his long days. And for that, he needed a disguise.

“What if this is all about Charlotte?” Shawn asked, pulling out a sombrero and then discarding it.

“About her how?”

"Her how?" Charlotte repeated solemnly, poking a small finger into Gus's left nostril. Gus pulled his head back, away from the tiny appendage. Charlotte waited a moment, then reached her finger toward the nostril again.

“What if Lassie thinks two guys living together is a bad environment to raise a little girl?" Shawn reached over and gently pulled Charlotte's finger out of range of Gus's nose. "What if he thinks she needs a mother, and he's out shopping around for one?”

“She _had_ a mother,” Gus pointed out, “and that didn't work out so well. By the time she's out of prison, Charlotte will be in college.”

Shawn pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt, put on a pair of sunglasses, and looked to Gus for approval.

Gus shook his head. “Too Unabomber.”

“Right.” Shawn pulled the hood down.

“But what if Lassie thinks she needs a positive female role model?”

“She has Juliet,” Gus said, somewhat defensively. “She's an excellent role model.”

“Yeah. You're right.” Shawn looked down at Charlotte and smiled. “Well lotta lotta love,” he asked, “what do you think? Is Daddy cheating on Papa? Is he? Is he a big cheater-weater?”

“Stop talking to her like that, Shawn,” Gus said. “You're going to mess up her language development.” He smiled at Charlotte. “We should speak normally,” he said slowly, enunciating each word, “so that she can learn to make the sounds herself. And you should be reading to her every day.”

“I'm sorry Gus. Shall I run and fetch that delightful children's book, Charlotte Has Two Daddies And One Of Them Is Probably Boinking Some Other Dude?”

“I thought we'd established that he could just as easily be boinking a woman.”

“Boink! Boink boink. Gus go. Boink boink.” Charlotte sang, patting Gus's cheek with each word.

“Now look what you've done,” Gus said. “You've taught her to swear.”

“You said it too,” Shawn protested. “Now she thinks everyone says it. Besides, boink is hardly a real swear. I mean, it's not like I taught her to say f—”

“Still,” Gus cut in quickly, “we should probably use a confounding euphemism so she won't know what we're saying.”

Shawn shook his head. “You lost me at confounding.”

“Ix-nay on the oink-bay,” Gus said seriously.

“Ok-ay do-kay.” Shawn dug further into his closet and emerged sporting the enormous sunglasses and a fedora. He turned and spread his arms. “Whaddya think? Too Kevin Federline?”

“Papa!” Charlotte clapped her hands delightedly at this dressing up game. "Hat, Papa, hat."

“You're no Lon Chaney,” Gus admitted, “but when a toddler can identify you, you might need to step it up a notch.”

“You're right.” Shawn removed the hat and stared glumly into the closet. “He's seen me in all the stuff I own. Although,” he admitted, “when I wear the fedora it's not usually with clothes.”

And then he remembered Lassiter's collection of Civil War face wigs.

* * *

"Good lunch," O'Hara said.

Lassiter glanced at her. "Uh huh."

"Nice day today," she added.

Lassiter didn't reply to that one. It _was_ a nice day, and lunch at the seafood place hadn't been bad, but he'd been too preoccupied with whatever had happened at the Stonewall Hotel and Suites to really enjoy it.

“If you told me what you know, I could help.” O'Hara ventured.

Lassiter chewed his lip. He'd kept O'Hara in the dark, partly to reduce any chance of the story leaking out, and partly to keep whatever crazy Yinnite had abducted him from targeting her as well. But he'd been working the case solo for days now and had gotten nowhere. If he was going to wrap this case up before Vick announced her candidacy for Mayor, then maybe a fresh pair of eyes were exactly what he needed.

He grabbed O’Hara by the shoulders and pulled her into a niche between a hotdog stand and a shack selling boat cruises. He glanced quickly around to ensure they were alone.

“Do I have your word that what I am about to tell you is kept absolutely confidential?”

O'Hara swallowed and nodded quickly.

“I can't have this leaking out,” he added. “My career, and Charlotte and Shawn's future happiness is on the line here.”

“You have my word,” O'Hara said. She looked worried.

“I don't know much,” Lassiter said. “I was at Tom Blair's Pub. A waitress handed me a scotch and said it was compliments of Chief Vick. After that, nothing, until I woke up handcuffed to the bed. But it doesn't take an Einstein to figure out that this is the work of some rabid Yin/Yang fan.” He only hoped it was as simple as that. The number of the hotel room hadn't appeared in the press, which suggested his quarry might have inside information.

“Have you tracked down the waitress?” O'Hara asked.

Lassiter scowled. “Tom Blair's doesn't have any red-headed waitresses.”

“Well that's good,” O'Hara said brightly. “That means she was one of the assailants.”

“Which would be great if I remembered anything about her apart from the fact that she had red hair.” If he'd known that she planned on drugging him he'd have paid closer attention. “Plus the hotel clerk said the women who checked me in were a brunette and a blonde.” It was starting to feel like he'd been kidnapped by some evil version of Charlie's Angels.

“So there could be a gang of women.”

“I need to get to the bottom of it and I need to do it before—oof!” A tall brunette on rollerblades suddenly careened into him, all clinging hands, toothy smiles and apologies. Lassiter pulled the young woman upright and pushed her gently outside his personal space.

“You okay?” he asked. Something about her made Lassiter uneasy. Maybe it was all her unnecessary touching.

The brunette flashed her teeth again and tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear.

“Sorry. First day on the blades. I didn't hurt you, did I?”

“I'm fine,” Lassiter tugged on his jacket. “But you're violating Municipal ordinance 10.06. In-line skating isn't permitted this close to the harbor wall.” He pulled out his notebook, preparing to charge her.

“Let it go,” O'Hara hissed under her breath. “We have bigger fish to fry.”

“Fine,” Lassiter said irritably. “Just get off the boardwalk as soon as possible.” He put his notebook away.

“Sorry." The woman skated backwards and shot him a quick salute. “I'll remember next time,” she called, before turning and gliding away up Garden Street.

“See that you do,” Lassiter muttered to her retreating back.

Fifteen feet away, a bearded man in enormous sunglasses watched the interaction anxiously from behind a bloodgood Japanese maple. Gus, sporting a goatee and fedora, and herding a toddling Charlotte like an Australian sheepdog, approached and handed Shawn an ice cream cone.

Shawn took the cone and watched as Lassiter and O'Hara moved away down the boardwalk.

“See anything?” Gus asked, catching Charlotte with his now-free hand. He scooped her up and settled her comfortably on his hip.

“I tawt I taw a puddy tat,” Shawn said, irritably.

"Ackamin," Charlotte said, reaching for Gus’s cone. He stretched his arm away from her, safely out of reach.

“Any sign of infidelity?” Gus asked, ignoring both Shawn's tangent and the small, insistent hands waving in his field of vision.

Shawn shook his head. “Not unless you count his colliding with Rollergirl. And that seems like an odd way of meeting up for a few seconds of public groping.”

“So it looks as if your fears were unfounded.” Gus didn’t say ‘I told you so,’ but he thought it really loudly.

"Ackamin!" Charlotte said again. She pulled off Gus's fedora and threw it on the ground. "Gus!"

Shawn smirked. “Yeah. The only person he's said more than a few words to is Jules.” He bent to retrieve the fedora.

Gus looked hard at Shawn. “Do not even _think_ about going there.”

“Dude,” Shawn said, quickly changing the subject, “you are totally rocking that goatee.”

“I know.” Gus smiled and thrust his chin forward. “I think I'm going to call this my Edris Alba.”

" _Ackamin_!" Charlotte grabbed Gus's ear.

"Ow!" Gus craned his head, unsuccessfully trying to escape Charlotte's grasping fingers.

"She just wants a bite, yes she does, yes she does." Shawn held his cone up to Charlotte, who face-butted it, and then looked confused as to why her mouth and cheeks were suddenly wet and cold.

“Shawn!” Gus scolded. “You can't feed ice cream to a baby,” he said. “Sugared food undermines their dental development and can contribute to type 2 diabetes, heart disease and cancer.”

Shawn found the wipes in the diaper bag and cleaned Charlotte's face. “What about _our_ teeth and hearts?”

Gus licked his cone. “It's too late for us,” he said seriously. “We're already addicted. We can only hope to save the next generation.”

* * *

Despite the fact that his tailing job had turned up no evidence of infidelity, Shawn felt uneasy. Something about yesterday was nagging at the back of his brain. He waited until the sound of deep even breathing assured him that Lassiter was asleep and then he crept noiselessly out of  bed, and down the hall to the front closet.

Going through Lassiter's suit pockets, Shawn felt as if he were committing a crime. First degree snoopery perhaps, or aggravated pocket entry. It wasn't as bad as hacking into his boyfriend's email, like the women in the Cosmo article had done, but at the bare minimum he was breaking a relationship bylaw against invading privacy. He continued to feel bad about it right up until he found the hotel room receipt and the condom. Staring at the foil wrapper his hand, Shawn felt as if he'd been punched in the chest.

“Shit,” he muttered. “I am _so_ hacking his email.”

* * *

The next morning Shawn sat across the table, watching Lassiter, trying to decide what he felt more: anger or disappointment. He tried to stuff his feelings down, along with forkfuls of cinnamon pancakes, and concentrate on putting his clues in context.

“Do you ever think Charlotte needs a mother figure?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” Lassiter looked up from his newspaper.

Shawn waved his fork back and forth. “You know, someone in her life as a female role model." He watched as Charlotte carefully picked up a chunk of pancake, put it in her mouth, spit it out, then stuffed it back in again.

Lassiter raised an eyebrow. “O'Hara's right next door.”

“I mean someone all the time. Someone like a girlfriend.” He watched Lassiter for any facial twitch that might betray agreement. He needed to know where he stood. Was he dealing with a mid-life crisis? Was having a family making Lassiter regret not sowing his wild oats? Or was Lassie looking to replace him with some newer, more socially acceptable model?

 Lassiter frowned. “What am I, Mormon?”

“I don’t mean _in addition_ to me,” Shawn said, his patience at an end.  “I mean…instead of me.”

“No. I _don't_.” Lassiter folded the paper and set it on the table. “Why?” His eyes widened a fraction of an inch. “Are you getting cold feet again?”

"Papa," Charlotte said. She was looking intently at Shawn, her face smeared with syrup.

“Again?” Shawn stared. “I never had cold feet. My feet are hot. They're on a beach in Jamaica in the summertime. No, they're wearing toe socks in a sauna in Mexico.” He turned his attention to Charlotte, who nodded and opened her mouth when Shawn picked up a piece of pancake.

"Let her feed herself," Lassiter said.

"I _will,_ " Shawn said irritably. "But do _you_ want to explain it to Dr. Cannon if she loses weight?"

“Don't change the subject.” Lassiter scowled. “You blew me off when I suggested we look at that weekend package in British Columbia.”

Shawn sighed. They were going to have the marriage argument again. Great.

"First off," he said, reaching for a banana and peeling it emphatically as he spoke, "British Columbia sounds totally shady. I immediately picture Prince Charles trying to sell me cocaine. Second of all, you weren't just floating some romantic get-away. You were talking about My Big Gay Wedding.” He broke the banana into pieces and put it on Charlotte's tray.

"I was _not._ " Lassiter's voice got a little louder. While Shawn was right that there had been a legal commitment involved, it had been quiet and tasteful. But faced with Shawn’s accusation, he brought out the heavy artillery. "I should have listened to Henry. He said you couldn’t commit." Lassiter thought back to how he’d gone to Henry’s house, like a fool, to discuss his plans to propose, only to get a lecture on how Shawn’s inability to commit would inevitably lead to heartbreak all around.

Charlotte had stopped paying attention to her pancakes, and was ignoring the banana entirely. Her eyes went from Shawn to Lassiter. "Daddy no," she said anxiously. She pushed the food away with both hands.

“I'm committed,” Shawn said sharply, unsnapping Charlotte's high chair tray. “I'm Britney Spears getting a buzz cut committed. I'm as committed to this relationship as Gus is to the love between Seeley Booth and Temperance Brennan and the eventual release of Zack Addy.” He dumped the uneaten banana and pancakes into the trash.

“Who the hell are they?”

“Does it matter?" Shawn unstrapped Charlotte from the high chair and lifted her into his arms.

She made a face and arched against him, shoving him away with both chubby hands. "No," she said again.

"You're upsetting her," Lassiter said.

"What makes you think it's me?" Shawn replied coldly, as Charlotte started to make fretful, pre-meltdown noises. "You're the one acting like Jayne after he sold out River and Simon."

"Will you _stop_ with the references!" Lassiter slapped the table.

Charlotte threw her head back and started to howl.

"Now look what you did," Shawn said in a small, furious voice.

"What I—” Lassiter cut himself off. "I'm going to work," he said. He bent to kiss the top of Charlotte's head, but jerked away when she thrashed and screamed louder.

"Go then," Shawn said, and Lassiter caught a glimpse of something sad and broken in Shawn's eyes as he turned away.

* * *

 

**Chapter 4**

Lassiter flipped through his crap list, which he'd been keeping since the seventh grade. Neither the coach of his high school wrestling team nor Mila Kunis were likely responsible for his abduction, but there were plenty of criminals who might be.

He glared down at the open case file on his desk. The night clerk at the Stonewall Hotel & Suites had been next to useless. He barely remembered the brunette, and all blonde women looked like Heather Graham to him. He was running out of leads.

Bringing O'Hara in on the case had been a smart move. Already she had pulled a photo from a traffic camera near the hotel of Lassiter being unloaded from a car by two women. The blonde's face wasn't visible, but the brunette's was.

"I've seen her before," Lassiter had said.

"Well, yeah." O'Hara raised her eyebrows. “She kidnapped you.’

"No," Lassiter said, "I mean somewhere else. Besides here." He tapped the screen.

It took him a few minutes, but he remembered: she was the woman illegally rollerblading on the boardwalk. He told O’Hara, but neither of them could guess why she would purposely bump into him.

 _It wasn_ _’_ _t as if she poked me with an umbrella, releasing a deadly toxin that mimicked a heart attack_ , Lassiter reasoned.

"I'll canvass the area, maybe scare up a lead," O'Hara had said, adding " _Discreetly,_ " when she saw the look on his face.

Lassiter had hoped the whole issue would be cleared up before the Chief announced her run for Mayor and Lassiter put his hat in the ring for her job. But there were still so many loose ends—he feared he wouldn't be able to tie them up in time.

Of course, perhaps the location itself was a lead. Or a message. Like it or not, he was probably going to have to visit the two people who knew the most about the Yin/Yang case.

Lassiter replaced his black notebook in his desk drawer and reached for the phone.

"Santa Barbara Psychiatric," the operator said.

"Can I have the psychiatrist on call, please," Lassiter said.

He spoke with several people before reaching the forensic psychiatrist. When he finally obtained some relevant information, he wished he hadn't.

* * *

As Lassiter drove home, he tried to come up with a convincing excuse for why Shawn and Charlotte needed to go visit Madeline Spencer immediately. He was leaning toward an imminent smallpox outbreak, although a looming swarm of deadly African bees were running a close second. Since his call to the psychiatric institution his paranoia had been in high gear. Everyone seemed suspicious, from the mailman puttering slowly along his block to the teenager on his lowrider bicycle to the woman with the Jackie O. headscarf and sunglasses pushing a baby carriage.

As he turned onto his street, the door to his house opened and a young blonde woman emerged. Lassiter peered apprehensively at her and his heart pounded.  Maybe this was what he’d been waiting for. His hand went to his holster.

And then, to his utter shock, the woman turned, wrapped her arms around Shawn, and kissed him.

Lassiter felt his stomach drop. Whoever she was, she was kissing Shawn with a casualness that suggested this wasn't the first time. She stepped back, made googly eyes at Shawn for a moment, and then climbed onto a scooter and zipped away into traffic. Shawn waved goodbye to her.

Lassiter wanted to follow her, but his first priority was to protect Shawn and Charlotte. Even if Shawn was a two-timing weasel.

He parked and climbed out of the car. “Who the _hell_ was that?”

“I have no idea.” Shawn's eyes were wide.  He looked surprised—confused, even.

But Lassiter knew better. It looked suspiciously like the expression Shawn had made when he claimed he didn't know who had eaten the last box of Thin Mints.

“Right.”

“No, seriously. I put Charlotte down for her nap. The doorbell rings, and there's a woman on the stoop. She asks if she can use the phone, and I say yes. She makes her call and then when she’s leaving, bam! Right on the lips.” Shawn wiped his lips vigorously with the sleeve of his shirt. “I think she was a Jehovah's kisser.”

Lassiter pushed past Shawn and went inside. "That's bullshit and you know it."

"Lassie, I _swear_ _—_ " Shawn followed him in.

"No more, Shawn." Lassiter held up a hand. "We'll talk about it later. Right now I need you to take Charlotte and go visit your mother."

Shawn's mouth fell open. “What? Why?"

Lassiter opened the hall closet and pulled out a rollerboard suitcase. "If you pack now,” he pushed the suitcase into Shawn's hands with a little more force than was strictly necessary, "you can get a flight tonight."

"What the hell, Lassie." Shawn put the suitcase down with a thud. "Why do you want me out of town all of a sudden?"

“Just—" Lassiter took a deep breath. "Trust me, Shawn. I need the two of you somewhere safe.” 

Shawn narrowed his eyes. "Safe, or just out of your way?"

"You're the one—“ Lassiter pointed at the front door. "I'm not kissing women on the front porch!"

"No, you're—“ Shawn broke off and glared at Lassiter. "I'm not explaining myself again."

"Fine. Whatever. Just stop...auditioning mothers for Charlotte or whatever it is you think you're doing." Lassiter closed the closet door and stalked toward the bedroom, loosening his tie as he walked. "And if you're going to be playing casting couch with every attractive woman that comes along we can just forget this whole relationship thing."

“I am _not_ cheating on you," Shawn called from behind him. "Cross my eyes and hope to die.”

“Right,” Lassiter muttered. Louder, he said, “Just pack a bag. I'll drive the two of you to the airport.”

“Why are you being so unreasonable?” Shawn came into the bedroom dragging the suitcase. He threw it on the bed.

Lassiter pulled away. “Shawn, your grasp on reasonable is slippery at best. You'd have better odds wrestling a greased otter.”

“I'll have you know I have _extensive_ otter wrestling experience from my cruise ship days.” He crossed his arms. “ _I_ haven't disappeared overnight leaving you curled up in a tight little ball of worry.”

“Last month, between 8:15 a.m. on Friday the seventh and 9:45 p.m. on Saturday the eighth.”

Shawn threw his hands in the air. “That wasn't disappearing. Gus and I went to the Lego exhibit in San Leandro. You knew that.”

Lassiter snorted. “And you expect me to believe that? Now? After what I just saw?” He’d been a fool. For all he knew Shawn and that woman could have been hooking up for months. 

“It was the largest Lego exhibit in Northern California." Shawn's voice got louder. "They had an entire cityscape with a working rail system. You know how Gus loves trains. Plus, hello! Lego!”

“If you've been faithful,” Lassiter said, his patience stretched to the breaking point, “it's only because you've lacked opportunity.”

"First of all," Shawn snapped, "I've had _lots_ of opportunity. Babies are like catnip for women. Secondly—" He held up an imaginary cell phone and put it to his ear. "Hello, pot? This is kettle."

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Shawn began to count off on his fingers, looking angrier with each point. “You work odd hours. You come home late with no explanation or phone call. You disappear without giving even a ridiculous reason why.”

For a moment, Lassiter was so incredulous he couldn't speak. “I'm working on a case. I can't talk about it.”

“A case, huh?” Shawn slapped his hand on the dresser. “At least I should be grateful that you're using these with your _case_." He pulled his hand away. Beneath it was the condom he’d taken from Lassiter’s pocket.

 _What the hell?_ Lassiter  was confused. Shawn was acting like this was evidence of guilt.

Lassiter forced his face into a composed expression. “I have no idea what you're talking about," he said evenly. "There really is a case. I just can't tell you about it.”

"You know what," Shawn said tightly, "fine." He swept his hand across the dresser, knocking the condom to the floor. "You don't want to tell me about this... _case..._ fine. You don't want to 'fess up to what we _both know_ is going on, fine." He jabbed his finger in the direction of Charlotte's room. "But there's more than the two of us to think about, and you can forget about getting rid of me that easily. I'm not going anywhere."

"Fine." Lassiter looked away.

Shawn slammed the suitcase lid shut, picked it up, and chucked it into the closet. "Fine."

* * *

Shawn slipped into the SBPD station and lurked behind a stucco pillar, waiting for his moment. The station was busy: Buzz was booking a scuzzy-looking guy in a vest and dirty jeans; Jules was two inches from her computer screen, apparently absorbed in a background check; Chief Vick was in her office, meeting with a publicist best known for his obnoxious “You Need Ned” television ads; and Lassiter was staring at a case file that had no name. Whatever it was, it was adding some serious worry lines to his forehead.

Shawn used the passing cookie lady as cover to dash to a closer pillar and waited until he saw Lassiter check his watch, put the file away, and stand. When Lassiter went into Vick's office, Shawn darted to his desk.

“Please be a case,” he muttered, opening the file drawer, “please be a case.”

If whatever it was that had come between them was work-related, he had a good shot at solving it. He and Gus hadn't failed to close a case yet. Even that thing with the guy and the dog had been solved in a few hours. His relationship record, on the other hand, was far less impressive. Peering anxiously toward Vick's office, he pulled out the unlabeled file folder.

Phrases jumped out at him. Doe, John. GHB. Tom Blair's Pub. Stonewall Hotel and Suites.

Room 1863.

_Room 1863?_

_Yin!_

_Of course, Yin._

No wonder Lassie was having a conniption of epic proportions. Yin and Yang had captured Shawn's mother last time; of course Lassie would be worried that his family was being threatened.

Shawn smiled for a brief moment as the idea that Lassiter considered him and Charlotte to be his family washed over him, warm and fuzzy. He put the file back into the drawer and headed down the stairs. If whatever was going on had something to do with Yin/Yang then he needed to consult an expert. Even if that expert was dead.

In the basement of the SBPD, Shawn slid a videotape into the ancient VCR. After a few moments of static and flickering, the image of Mary Lightly appeared. He was wearing a droopy blue dress shirt and a Members Only jacket and reading a poem from a spiral bound notebook.

“—said the Lion to the Lamb,” Mary’s soft voice intoned, “promising never again to borrow jam.” He closed the book and looked thoughtfully into the camera.

Shawn leaned back in his chair and opened the bag of Fritos he'd gotten from the vending machine.

“But back to the subject at hand.”  Mary paused to pull a sardine from a tiny metal can. He dangled it over his mouth for a moment. Shawn grimaced and turned away, trying not to picture Mary as The Penguin, terrorizing the citizens of Gotham with uncouth fish-eating, until he heard him finish chewing. 

“We're not dealing with an episode here,” Mary said, drawing his attention back to the screen. “It's a series. Like dominoes, if you will. Yin and Yang are only the first to fall.” He pivoted his hands loosely at the wrists to mimic the falling of dominos. “Every master needs an apprentice to continue the chain. Homer, Virgil, and Dante. Aristotle and Alexander the Great. Yoda, Obi-Wan Kenobi and Luke Skywalker.”

"Good God, Mary," Shawn muttered. "Please be creepier."

Mary crawled awkwardly toward the camera, his eyes wide and intent. “Beware the dominos!” he whispered, flapping his hands once again.

"I didn't really mean that," Shawn said.

Mary sat on the floor, having gotten close enough to the camera that Shawn could see the pimples on his forehead. He produced a book from the detritus scattered around him. “Now allow me to read a few passages from the German philosopher Hegel that I think will make clear my point.”

Shawn ejected the tape.

* * *

"Hey, Shawn."

Shawn looked up from his Rubik's Cube. He'd been playing with it idly for the last thirty minutes, feet on his desk, while he ruminated.

“I think I figured it out, Gus.”

“I should hope so,” Gus said. “You've had that thing since before we started school.”

Shawn frowned and put the Rubik's Cube onto a shelf behind him. “Not that. This. The case. I think I know what's behind Lassie's weird behavior.”

“You mean, apart from Lassiter himself?”

“Chief Vick is the key,” Shawn began. He smiled. “I'm 99% sure that she's running for Mayor.”

Gus sat down at his desk. He looked impressed. “That's pretty sure.”

Shawn shrugged. “There's a slim possibility that she's killed a bunch of people to cover up her involvement in prostitution, blackmail, and heroin dealing.”

Gus raised his eyebrows. “You watched L.A. Confidential last night, didn't you?”

“And again this morning. Guy Pierce is on my list of celebrities I get to sleep with if the chance comes up.”

“So what does Vick's possible Mayoral run have to do with Lassie?”

“Still working that out. But the important thing is that we're dealing with a case of dominos.” Shawn mimicked Mary's creepy domino-falling hand gestures.

Gus frowned. “You'd better start making some sense, or I am booting up this computer and playing FarmVille. My tomato crop is two days away from withering.”

“It's something Mary Lightly said.” Shawn planted his feet on the floor. “I snuck into the station and read Lassie’s secret case file. Someone drugged him and made him spend the night handcuffed to a bed in room 1863 at the Stonewall Hotel & Suites. And I resent that because it _totally_ torpedoes my plans for our anniversary.”

Gus looked at once taken aback and vaguely disturbed. “You were planning to handcuff him to a hotel bed?”

“And _now_ it'll just be an unpleasant reminder of the time he was kidnapped by Yinnites.” Shawn made a face.

“You think Lassiter's kidnapping is connected with the Yin/Yang cases?” Gus sounded suddenly serious.

“As surely as I know that a real Mexican burrito doesn't have rice in it.” Shawn pointed a finger, gun-style, pretended to shoot a target on the bookshelf. “He was kept in the same hotel room as the waitress from the Yang case.”

"Okay." Gus raised his eyebrows, impressed.

Shawn shot a second imaginary target and then blew on the end of his finger, as if to disperse the gunsmoke. “And guess who's been missing from her court-mandated funny-farmville for over a month?” he asked rhetorically, building up to his big reveal.

“Allison Cowley,” Gus said. He got up and started checking the locks on the windows.

“Nope. Wait. What? How did you guess? I mean, I know I _said_ to guess, but I didn't expect you to _actually_ guess.”

“It makes total sense,” Gus said, flipping the last window lock. “She failed to return to the hospital after being issued a day pass. I’ve always said they give those things out too soon.”

“How did you know she was loose?" Shawn demanded. "Is Jules giving you inside information? And why aren't you sharing it with me? Especially after I told you how to get free bags of Fritos out of the vending machine in the station basement.” He scowled.

“I wouldn't ask Juliet to break confidentiality,” Gus said. “But I set up Google news alerts on all the names of people we helped put away, as sort of a NORAD system. Her name came up.”

“NORAD!" Shawn stared at Gus. "You had a NORAD! You sly dog. Why didn't you say anything?”

“Shawn, do you have any idea how often the people we help convict get out of jail?" Gus sat back down. "It's not like on television where people go to jail and you just never see that character again. In real life, people get parole, their sentences get commuted, they escape, or they fail to return when their inappropriately early day pass expires.”

“Still, I think you could have mentioned it." Shawn wadded up a piece of paper and threw it at Gus. It bounced off his head and fell to the floor. "You could say ‘Hey Shawn. The woman who helped Yin try to kill us has escaped from the mental ward. Just a heads-up.’ You could even email me." He tapped his phone. "Or send a text message.”

“Oh, trust me," Gus replied, "if there was any chance that Allison was headed here, I'd have said something. But they found evidence that she was headed for Mexico.” He picked up the ball of paper, uncrumpled it, smoothed it out, and put it in his scrap paper pile. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

Shawn stood up and climbed onto his chair. “Don't be the spiky Barbapapa, Gus. That's a classic fake-out. Mexico shmexico!" He pointed down at Gus. "For all I know she's stalking Lassie all over town and I'll come home to find a dead bunny in a pressure cooker on the stove."

"Get down from the chair, Shawn," Gus said.

Shawn stepped onto the desk, still pointing at Gus. "Do you want the death of a cute, innocent, fluffy bunny on your conscience, Gus? I don't think so.”

Gus sighed. "Sorry."

"Yeah. You should be." Vindicated, Shawn climbed down from the desk. "So now we know who's behind all this juju mcgumbo."

“So what's the plan?”

“Allison's obviously not working alone," Shawn said. "It's like Mary predicted, to become the master, she needs an apprentice."

"So we need to find him. Or her."

Shawn shook his head. "Based on the case file, she's got at least two. There could be a whole nest of them for all I know. We need to lure our Yinnites out of hiding. We need something tempting.  Something they can’t resist.”

Gus looked concerned. “Tell me you’re not thinking of using yourself as bait.”

Shawn smiled. “What more alluring bait is there?”

* * *

Shawn put his hands on his hips and watched his father make silly faces at a laughing Charlotte.

“Rule one, no games like how many hats are in the room.”

Henry looked up. “She's a toddler, Shawn. An aptitude like yours doesn't show this early. I’m impressed that she even remembers me from visit to visit.”

“Rule two," Shawn continued, as though he hadn't heard, "no crushing her self esteem or dashing her dreams.”

Henry rolled his eyes as Charlotte used his face to pull herself to her feet. “Again, she's a baby. What dreams do you think she has?”

“Rule three, no teaching her anything about fishing. Rule four—”

Gus came in from the porch, where he'd been pacing and talking on his cell phone. “I called the hospital where Allison was being held. Her only visitor was someone named Stella McKinney. Maybe she's the new apprentice.”

Shawn was already heading for Henry's computer. A few keystrokes, and then: "Oh my God, Gus."

"What? What?" Gus looked over Shawn's shoulder. "Hey. She's cute."

"Not that." Shawn clicked through the profile pictures on Stella's Facebook page. "I've kissed her!"

"Whoa," Gus said, holding up his hands. "I know I've made some dubious choices in the past. Mia most notably. But this Stella girl is once removed from crazy, Shawn."

"I didn't _date_ her," Shawn snapped. "She showed up at my house, asked to use the phone, and kissed me. But she was blond then."

Gus frowned. "Okay. So she's more like crazy's older sister."

"Try cousin," Shawn said. "Look."

He pointed at the screen. Sure enough, there in one of Stella's many snapshots, captioned with a misspelled abbreviation, was Allison.

Shawn and Gus exchanged a look. "Guess that answers one question,” Gus said. “Allison’s cousin is the new apprentice.”

“Yeah,” Shawn replied. “Now we just have to find her.” He typed her name into Google. “What about your NORAD?”

“That only works for people mentioned in the news,” Gus reminded him.

“Riiiiiight.” Shawn frowned at the computer and clicked a few times. “Wow. That seems way too easy.”

“What does?” Gus leaned over Shawn’s shoulder. “Oh. Wow.”

On the screen, under the Google search engine, was a Santa Barbara University personal homepage with Stella’s full name and e-mail address.

“Thanks, Internets!” Shawn said.

"Shawn!" Henry's voice, from the other room. "Charlotte has something for you."

“Great,” Shawn said. He closed the webpage. “I’m betting it’s brown and smelly and rhymes with moop.”

“Moop isn’t a word, Shawn.” Gus followed Shawn back into the living room. “You could have gone with droop, soup, troop…”

“Soup,” Charlotte said gleefully, leaning forward from Henry’s outstretched hands.

“She made it herself,” Henry said. He held Charlotte out a little further. She kicked her feet.

Shawn wrinkled his nose. “Best news I’ve heard all day,” he said, and reached for a clean diaper.

* * *

 

**Chapter 5**

Shawn paced Gus’s new back porch, clutching an unsipped beer, chewing his lip and pushing his brain to think.

“Would you just sit?” Gus slouched deeper into his Adirondack chair looked reproachfully up at Shawn.

Shawn perched on the edge of his chair and stared at his beer.

“I would have thought you’d be happy,” Gus said, gazing out across the yard where they hoped their shared swimming pool would someday be. “The way I see it, we’ve practically solved the case. You should tell Lassiter. Do a big reveal. It’ll be fun.”

“Not yet,” Shawn shook his head.  “Sure, I know Stella was behind that run-by smooching, and I think her and Allison are the kidnappers, but I know Lassie.  He’ll want evidence. Like, what’s their motive?”

“When did crazy stop being a motive?” Gus asked. 

“No,” Shawn shook his head thoughtfully.  “It’s got to be bigger than that.  Yang was all about the puzzles.  Yin was all about the movies.  What’s Allison about? I still can’t see the big picture.”

Gus drank beer. “My vote’s still on crazy.”

Shawn gazed across the lawn. What was Allison planning? What had it all accomplished?

“What do we even know about her?” he asked. 

“Well,” Gus said, “She’s pretty, in a complete psycho sort of way.  And she was a damn good actor. I really believed she’d been kidnapped by Yang.  So did you. She had us all fooled.” He smiled proudly.  “Except for Juliet.”

Shawn nodded his agreement. It had been easy to believe Allison.  She had those big doe eyes and pouty lips—the classic damsel in distress. When she’d finally dropped the façade….

“Dude,” Shawn said, turning to face his best friend, “We do know something about her.”

Gus looked attentive.

“Remember when we were tied up in Yang’s office, and he told Allison she was dismissed?  She was all ‘No way am I missing this,’” Shawn mimicked Allison in a high girly voice, “And she said ‘I was perfect. I deserve this.’” Shawn looked intently at Gus.

“Yeah.” Although he didn’t have nearly the degree of recall that Shawn did, Gus remembered quite a bit about that evening, since at the time he had thought he was about to die.

“So,” Shawn said, “we know Allison’s a classic overachiever with a sense of entitlement.”

Gus shrugged and sipped his beer. “So she’s a perfectionist. I’m sure that was a big help to her in college, but where does that get us now?”

College. Trust Gus to put his finger on the pulse of every mystery.

Shawn thought further back to when Allison had led them upstairs to Yin’s office with a shotgun pointed at their backs. She’d been gloating, taunting them. “You fell for every neo-romantic cliché in the book,” she’d said.

“Dude, you’re brilliant!” Shawn’s face lit up.  “Allison was a romantic history major. She signed up for the class—that’s how she’d met Yin.  Allison is into romance.” Shawn felt the clarity that usually accompanied a breakthrough. All at once, the pieces were falling into place. “It’s all about the tragic romance, and she’s cast me and Lassie in the lead roles,” he explained, jumping from his seat and resuming his pacing. “We’re Starbuck and Apollo. House and Cuddy. Mal and Inara.”

“Lancelot and Guinevere,” Gus offered.

“Buffy and Angel. Angel and Cordelia.”

Gus nodded. “Angel and anybody, really.”

“The kidnapping was perfect,” Shawn’s eyes shone in the glow of the porch light. “It pushed a wedge between us.  Keeping secrets, no sex, of course I was going to think affair.”

“And Stella kissed you in full view of Lassiter to widen the gap between you,” Gus added, getting pulled in by the theory.

“Exactly! Oh my God,” Shawn smacked his forehead with a palm and pointed next door, toward the house he shared with Lassiter.  “That day.  Allison was _there_!” is memory flashed back to the street in vivid detail—the mailman, hurrying to finish his route—Shawn was pretty sure he’d had a toothache—the spotty-faced pre-teen from two blocks over, hoping to catch a glimpse of his crush in the house across the street.  Finally his memory came to rest on the woman with the headscarf and sunglasses. She’s been pushing a baby carriage and using her cell phone. “She was here, Gus,” Shawn assured his friend.  “In disguise, but it was definitely her.  Stella asked to use our phone, and Allison was on her cell.”

Gus stood, his face animated as he saw the connection. “They were probably timing the kiss for when Lassiter showed up!”

Shawn nodded.  Allison and Stella had a plan all right, and it was to destroy his relationship.

“That’s so…mean.” Shawn said, his face full of disgust. “All this just to ruin what little happiness I’ve managed to find?  That’s diabolical.  It’s like I’m Veronica Mars and Alison and Stella are Kendall Casablancas. Or Beaver Casablancas. Or Dick. All the Casablancases.”

“It’s pretty messed up.”

“Yeah!” Shawn huffed, offended. “What did I ever do to her?”

Gus winced. “Well, you did expose her as a psycho working with a demented killer and have her remanded into custody at a mental institution.”

“Okay, there’s that,” Shawn allowed. His memory flashed back to the day he and Gus has spied on Lassiter on the boardwalk. Another piece of the puzzle fell into place.

“Stella was the girl on the boardwalk!” He mimicked her groping motions. “The rollerblader with the grabby hands.” He went over her every movement again in his mind. “She must have put the condom and the hotel receipt into Lassie’s pocket.” He clapped his hands together. “That’s our evidence!” He turned and strode purposefully toward his house.

Gus, standing on his porch, looked confused.  “Condom? Hotel receipt?  What?”

Shawn hurried through the house, rummaging for evidence.  The condom was exactly where it had fallen, on the bedroom floor. He put it safely into a sandwich bag.  It wasn’t exactly official, but psychic detectives didn’t have access to self-sealing evidence bags like cops did.

“Come on, come on,” Shawn muttered, tossing crumpled paper after crumpled paper out of the junk drawer, his hands already sweating in the non-latex gloves he’d just pulled on. Lassiter hated the junk drawer—this was precisely why.  You could never find anything in it.

 “Can you please tell me what the hell you’re doing?”  Gus demanded.

“Looking for evidence,” Shawn said, distracted by the large number of bizarre items that had somehow made their way into the drawer. He found it at last, stuck to the back of a sheet of Pizza Hut coupons. He lifted it out, careful to touch only the corners of the slick little piece of paper so as not to smudge whatever prints it might hold.

 “Bingo!” Shawn brandished the receipt.

“Exactly what does this prove?” Gus asked.

“Maybe it’s the evidence we need.” Shawn held up a shushing finger, pulled out his phone, and called Woody.

“Hey, Woody, my man,” he said.

Woody’s voice was light and cheerful. “Hey, friend!” he exclaimed.

“Listen,” Shawn said. “I need you to do me a favor.”

“Does it involve selling human hair?” Woody asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Because they are getting surprisingly strict about that around here.”

“No,” Shawn said, grimacing at the thought.  “I need you to run a print for me without letting Lassie or Jules know anything about it.”

“Oh.” Woody’s voice brightened.  “That’s different.”

* * *

Shawn sat at a corner table of Tom Blair’s Pub.  He was a broken man.  The pain of his shattered heart marred his modelesque face and his head hung low with the weight of loss. He began to drown his sorrows in scotch.  At least, that’s how he hoped it looked.  After all, he reasoned, this was what Alison wanted. It was the only thing that made sense. 

His phone vibrated and he checked it under the table.  It was Gus.

 _Drinking?  Really_?

Shawn glanced across the bar to where Gus, looking vaguely like Robert Townsend in a Kangol cap and broad false mustache, sat drinking a soda. 

Shawn rolled his eyes and texted back.

            _Iced tea in a scotch glass. Duh._

He smirked and took a sip of his drink, remembering to wince convincingly. If everything went as planned, Stella should come along within the hour, dope him as she’d doped Lassie, and arrange him in a compromising position.  He’d be like Denzel Washington in Ricochet. He just hoped that Gus could follow them discreetly and call in the SBPD before he got videotaped having drugged sex with a prostitute. It wouldn’t count as cheating if it was done in the name of crime-fighting, right?

His phone buzzed, this time it was a call.

“Sup?” Shawn tried to sound subdued, depressed. Like a Radiohead album.

“Shawn!”  The geniality of Woody’s greeting made it difficult to stay in depression mode. “How are you this fine day?”

“Depressed, lonely, and drinking myself into oblivion,” Shawn said, lest anyone nearby was eavesdropping.

“Sounds like my Thursday nights,” Woody quipped.  “Except that I also play backgammon,” he added.

Shawn’s looked confused. “Isn’t backgammon a game for two people?” he asked.

“Yes. Yes it is,” Woody agreed, his voice tinged with regret. “However,” he went on, “I have something that might cheer you up.  That condom you gave me had fingerprints on it.  Yours.  And that hotel receipt had fingerprints on it too.  Yours and those of an unidentified individual.” Woody paused.  “Now I’m no detective, but even I can put the clues together in this heartbreaking scavenger hunt. Are you pining for someone, Shawn? Who is it?  A lost love?  A ship, passing in the night? A nimble, yet affordable escort?”

“What?  No.” Shawn paused. “So the unidentified prints weren’t in the system?” Now he really did sound depressed.  He had hoped that Alison’s fingerprints would be on at least one of those items.

“They were not,” Woody confirmed chirpily.  “I checked all the databases.  Criminal, missing persons, and my own personal collection of suspicious persons.”

Shawn shuddered to think what someone had to do to make it into Woody’s suspicious person file.

“Thanks anyway.” He signed off and returned to his iced tea, his act more convincing than ever as he dwelled on their lack of evidence.  The unidentified fingerprints would only help if they actually caught Stella, and then what did they prove?  That she was…whatever the opposite of a pickpocket was. A put-pocket?

The purr of his phone interrupted his thoughts. Gus again.

            _Any developments_?

Shawn responded.

            _No ID on print_. :(

He briefly made eye contact with Gus, across the room, and he could read the sympathy in his glance.

He sat, drinking iced tea for another six minutes when his phone rang a fourth time.  He growled, low in his throat. How was he supposed to look lonely if people wouldn’t leave him alone?

“Goddamn it,” he muttered as he looked down at the screen.

It was Lassiter.

Lassiter, who had been through hell and not told him a word about it. Lassiter, who had tried to send him out of town instead of enlisting his help. Lassiter, who would rather pick a fight than tell him the real reason they weren’t having sex. Shawn was starting to feel as if he really was heartbroken and dumped.

“What?”  He didn’t have to act to sound rejected.

“You have to come home,” Lassiter said, his voice high and tight.

Shawn had a dozen snippy comebacks ready in his mind, but something in Lassiter’s tone stopped him dead.

“What’s wrong?”

There was a long pause. The sound of Lassiter’s long, harsh breaths. Shawn’s chest got tighter and tighter with each second that ticked by.

“It’s Charlotte,” Lassiter said, and the floor dropped out from under Shawn. “She’s been kidnapped.”

* * *

“No.” The door slammed open and Shawn charged through, barely registering Lassiter or Henry or the three uniformed officers in the living room. “No no no. This is not happening. You missed something.” He whirled, turning on Lassiter. “You missed something.”

Lassiter’s face was pale; his eyes were puffy and red-rimmed; and he was leaning heavily on a kitchen chair.

“We didn’t miss anything,” he said quietly.

“She’s not fucking gone,” Shawn said. “She was at day care. Did you check the day care?” He grabbed Lassiter’s shoulders. “Did you _check the fucking day care?_ ”

Shawn couldn't breathe.  Charlotte had been in daycare so he could play his elaborate charade at Tom Blair’s.  This was his fault.

Allison and Stella had found more attractive bait after all. 

“They checked the day care, son.” Henry’s hand came down on Shawn’s shoulder, and Shawn shoved it away.

“ _How could she disappear from a day care?_ ” Shawn shouted. “Will someone tell me how a _baby_ could _disappear from a fucking day care? Don_ _’_ _t they have security? Check for ID?_ ”

“Calm down, Shawn.”

Shawn turned to see McNab behind him.

“Don’t tell me to—” and then he was crying, hot tears of fury and shame. Allison and Stella had been thorough, all right.  If they knew about the day care, which he used maybe once every two or three weeks, then they’d probably had Shawn and Lassiter under surveillance for months. They’d been steps ahead of him from the very beginning.

He rocked forward and put his forehead on McNab’s shoulder and felt even more guilt when McNab’s hand came up and patted his back.

His fault. His fault.

Charlotte was gone and it was entirely his fault.

* * *

 

**Chapter 6**

It was so quiet.

It had been three—no, four—hours now since Lassiter had dragged Shawn away from his bike for the second time. Since he'd taken Shawn's keys and shoved them into his pocket and told Shawn to just stop it, for God's sake stop it, because nothing he could do was going to bring their baby home.

Charlotte's Amber Alert was on all the news channels. They had every department in the region on the lookout for her. All Lassiter’s hopes about solving the case before Vick ran for Mayor seemed shallow and silly to him now.

When Shawn broke down and begged, Lassiter finally gave in and drove Shawn to the day care. In the empty classroom, surrounded by scuffed toys and children's artwork, Shawn put his head in his hands, his desperate eyes searching the space for any clue, however small.

Charlotte was gone.

“Come to bed,” Lassiter had said when they returned home, and his voice was quiet and broken.

Shawn had mumbled "Later" because it hurt too much to move, to breathe, to be.

Later came. And still they’d received no word from Allison.  No ransom note. No taunting messages.  Nothing.  He stared at his tapped cell phone, willing it to ring.  Shawn heard Lassiter moving around in the bedroom. He heard his uneven breathing, the sound of dry racking sobs unsuccessfully muffled. He stared at the wall, his eyes gritty and burning.

He got up.

"Lassie," he said, from the doorway of the bedroom, and his voice sounded odd and disjointed.

Lassiter looked at him, and for a moment he couldn't speak.

"What, Shawn?" he said finally.

"It's—" Shawn put out a hand, braced himself against the doorframe. "It's my fault."

Lassiter's brow furrowed. "What?"

And then the words were tumbling out, over and over each other like boulders: Stella and Allison, Jackie O. headscarves and kisses, rollerblades and hidden condoms. Lassiter's eyes widened in disbelief and shock as Shawn went on and on.

When he’d finished talking, when his confessions were splayed across their shared bed like so much dirty laundry, he was sitting and Lassiter was standing. Standing, and staring at him as though he'd never seen Shawn before in his life.

"Say something," Shawn said, and if he was crying again it was okay now, surely.  Lassiter could see Shawn's intentions, that he had done this for him, for Charlotte, for their family.

Lassiter's eyes were fixed on Shawn. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then he turned and walked out of the bedroom.

"Lassie!" Shawn was on his feet. He chased Lassiter through the  house and outside to his car. "Lassie," he said. "Please."

"Please?" Lassiter turned on him, blue eyes bright with rage and pain. "Shawn—“ He broke off. "They have my daughter."

When Shawn put a hand on Lassiter's shoulder, Lassiter shoved it away.

"I can't, Shawn," he said. He got in the car.

Shawn's legs gave out; he sat down hard on the porch and watched Lassiter drive away.

It was nearing 2:00 a.m. when Shawn got up the energy to get off the porch. He was shivering now; it felt as though the temperature had dropped below sixty and he was wearing only a T-shirt and jeans. He dragged himself inside and stood in the empty living room, scattered with his discarded sweatshirts and an array of toddler toys.

He didn't have the energy to cry, so he dragged the quilt from the couch into Charlotte's room, laid his head on a pile of her stuffed animals, and tried to sleep.

Insistent knocking at the door woke him up.

"Ugh." He rolled off an oversized Nemo—not, as it turned out, ergonomically sound, as pillows went—and crawled into the living room on creaking joints. The knocking persisted, and as he neared the front door, he heard Gus's voice. "Shawn!"

"Hang on." Shawn got to his feet, groaning a little at the pain in his lower back, and pulled the door open.

"Dude." Gus wrapped Shawn in a tight hug. "Lassiter told me you had a fight."

Shawn pushed back and narrowed his eyes at Gus. "He told you?"

"Well." Gus shifted uncomfortably. "He told Juliet. And I _may_ have been pretending to be asleep and been eavesdropping."

"Always got my back, brother." Shawn clapped Gus on the shoulder, then dropped heavily onto the couch. "Shit."

"Shawn," Gus sat down, too. "About Charlotte."

The floor felt as though it were falling away. Nausea curdled Shawn's breath. There was news.  And if they’d sent Gus to break it to him then the news was bad.  Very, very bad. "No," he breathed. "Gus—“

"God, Shawn, no!" Gus went ashen. "Nothing like that. Nothing new.” He said it in a rush, clearly trying to remedy the damage the miscommunication had caused.

"Jesus, dude," Shawn breathed. He put a hand on Gus's shoulder. "Don't do that to me."

"Sorry. I'm sorry." Gus shook his head hard. "What I was going to say,"

"Just spit it out," Shawn growled.

"I think," Gus said, "that we need to talk to Yang."

* * *

Yang smiled as Shawn approached, her pointy chin and sharp smile making her look like an evil elf. The green scrubs she was wearing only reinforced the image.

“I need your help,” Shawn said, sitting down at the grey Formica table, bolted to the floor.

Yang pretended to look scolding.  “Now Shawn, you can’t come running to me every time you get stuck solving a case.  How are you ever going to learn independence?”

Shawn shook his head, hurriedly. “It’s not to solve a case. That part's done. I need your help to catch Allison Cowley before she...” He hesitated. He certainly didn't want to share details of his personal life with Yang, even if she wasn't exactly the cold-blooded killer everyone had thought she was. “...before she does any more damage.”

Yang's mouth pulled into an exaggerated frowny face. “Oh Shawnie,” she said, in a passable imitation of McGruff, the Crime Dog. “Are you and Detective Grumpy breaking up?”

Shawn's jaw dropped. How did she know these things?

“We’re not breaking up,” Shawn denied. “At most it's a second chapter act break. I've got one act still to go. Or, if we're going Quinn-Martin style, one act and an epilogue. An epilogue where we freeze frame with everyone laughing as the theme music cuts in.”

Yang huffed softly, and Shawn wasn't sure if it was laughter or something darker. "There are no freeze-frames, Shawn," she said. "No matter how hard you try."

Shawn took a deep breath and bit the bullet. "I need you," he said.

Yang sat back. "Can't help you," she said, looking away and folding her arms.

"God damn it." Shawn put both hands flat on the table, trying to fight back the pounding in his ears. "What do you want? What do I need to do?"

Yang's gaze slowly slid from the floor to Shawn's face.

"Quid pro quo, Clarice," she said. She leaned in, as if savoring the scent of his desperation. "Who's your screaming lamb?"

Shawn looked at her. Didn't reply.

"You know you want to tell me," Yang sang quietly. A small smile curled her lips. "You're absolutely dying to. What's stopping you, Shawnie?"

 _Fine, you crazy bat_ , Shawn thought.

When he reached into his pocket for his phone, Yang crowed with glee. "I knew you'd get there," she said happily. She looked at the phone, where Shawn had pulled up a picture of Charlotte.

The blood drained out of her face.

"Shawn," she said. All the farce was gone from her voice. And suddenly Shawn could see the lines around her eyes, around her mouth. "Who's that?"

Shawn took a deep breath, hating the tangle of revulsion and pain that tightened his chest and made it hard to speak.

"Our daughter," he said.

At once, Yang seemed to recover. Her eyes regained their lunatic snap, and she broke into a grin.

"Well," she purred. "This does add an exciting new dimension to the game."

"It's not a game," Shawn snapped. "She's been kidnapped. By Allison and her cousin, Stella."

"Hm." Yang tented her fingers under her chin and looked at him speculatively. When she didn't say anything else, Shawn shoved his chair back and stood up.

"Fine," he said. "I'll deal with your idiot flunkies myself."

Yang laughed. "Easy, tiger. I didn't say no."

Shawn glared, but he lowered himself back into his seat. "Quid pro quo," he reminded her.

She nodded. "It is so refreshing to see you all Not Without My Daughter like this.  I like it.  I really really like it.”

“Can the Sally Fields,” Shawn said sharply. "Yes or no?"

“Come on,” Yang smiled coyly.  “You know that Daddy-daughter relationships are one of my hot button issues.”

Shawn felt the weight on his shoulders lighten a fraction. “How can we get Charlotte back?”

“You know,” Yang said, tilting her head, “They’ve got some really good staff here.  Dr. Franz Blau is great with a crisis.  Maybe you should see him.”

“I’m fine, thanks, just tell me what I need to know.” Shawn bit his lip. If he didn’t solve this soon and get Charlotte back he just might end up sharing a neighboring rubber room with Yang.

Yang shook her head and smiled at him with her lockjaw grin. “Time must untangle this, not I.” She splayed her hands, as though giving up.  “It is too hard a knot for me to untie.”

“I’m not stupid,” Shawn spat out.  “I can tell when you’re stalling. Just give me something.  Anything.” He hated how desperate he sounded. He hated knowing that he’d stoop even lower if it gave him a shot at getting Charlotte back safe and sound.

Yang sat on her hands, leaned forward, and Shawn had the distinct feeling that she was looking at him like he was a world famous Jalama Burger and she had just walked all the way to Lompoc without any breakfast or lunch. 

“I don’t think you’re stupid, Shawnie” she admonished him.  “You’re wise enough to play the fool and to do that well takes a kind of wit.”

“Enough with the weird compliments,” Shawn said.  “How do I find Allison?”

"Remember," Yang said, pushing back from the table, "that little cookie really, really loves the spotlight." She gave Shawn a significant look. "Really." Two guards approached to announce their visiting hours had ended. Shawn protested.  Yang’s statements were so cryptic. He needed more. More time, more details. More insight into Allison.

"Yeah, so you've said," Shawn said impatiently. "What does that mean, though?"

Yang gave a small enigmatic shrug as the guards unshackled her to lead her away.

"Yang!" Shawn said, but the guards were turning her toward the door.

And then she looked back. “Shawn,” Yang pointed a finger at Shawn and spoke in a mockingly stern tone. “Promise me you’ll be careful.” She dropped the tone, and the seriousness of her next words caused a chill to ripple over Shawn’s skin. “That girl is crazy.”

* * *

“How’d it go?” Gus asked anxiously as Shawn climbed into the passenger seat of the Blueberry.  From the expression on his face, he could tell Shawn wasn’t happy, but he thought it might help him to talk it out.

“She’s impossible, Gus!” Shawn threw his head back and sighed as they pulled out of the parking lot.  “She’s all movie references and tauntingly cryptic comments.”  He looked plaintively at Gus.  “I don’t do that, do I?  Oh my god! Is that what it’s like talking to _me_? Am I Yang?”

“No,” Gus said, somewhat less convincingly than he intended.  “Of course not.”  Then, as he steered the Echo onto the 101 headed for downtown, he added, “What exactly did she say?”

“All she said was that Allison’s crazy for the spotlight.  That’s like, zero help.  No calories whatsoever. We already knew she was ‘ready for her closeup’ a long time ago.  Yang basically said it was too tough a knot to untie, and that I was smart enough to play the fool.” He shuddered. “She’s creepy when she flirts.”

“Really? She said that?” Gus sounded thoughtful.

 “Oh!  And she suggested I get some professional psychiatric help.” Shawn looked out the window at the passing view, feeling nothing but sick and hollow inside. 

“That might not be such a bad plan,” Gus said. He’d been looking for a way to make the same suggestion to Shawn for some time now, primarily to work on his commitment issues.

“Well I think it’s a terrible idea. Dr. French Blouse can just go analyze himself.”

Gus slowed the car.  “Do you mean Dr. Franz Blau? Is that who she recommended?”

“Why?” Shawn asked, bitterly. “Planning to sell him pharmaceuticals?”

“No,” Gus said, his tone actually cheerful, “I ask because there is no Dr. Franz Blau at Yang’s hospital.” He pulled onto a sidestreet.

“Where are you going?” Shawn asked, the optimism of Gus’s tone making him sit up straighter in his seat.  Gus knew something, he was sure of it.

“We are going to the library at Allison Cowley’s old college,” Gus said, pleased with himself.

Shawn turned his full glare onto Gus.  “Dude! Tell me what you know that I don’t know.”

Gus smiled.  “Dr. Franz Blau is a character in Soapdish, played by Whoopi Goldberg.  She’s the one who shows up with Ariel Maloney and the Mohawks yearbook which proves that Nurse Nan, played by Montana Moorehead, couldn’t be pregnant with Dr. Rod Randall’s child because she used to be _Milton_ Moorehead of Syosset, Long Island.”

Shawn looked at Gus with awe, tinged with confusion. 

“What?”  Gus shrugged.  “I’ve always enjoyed Goldberg.  She’s the only reason I watched The View, and I have Burglar on DVD.” He pulled into the parking lot of the college library.  “And,” he added, “Yang wasn’t just flirting with you.  She was quoting lines from Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night.” Gus pulled the Echo into the parking lot of the Cabrillo library.

Shawn smiled.  “I knew that college degree of yours would help us out eventually.”

Gus removed his seatbelt and followed Shawn inside. As far as he was concerned, his college degree helped them out enormously all the time, not least of which when he had to do all their financial planning, marketing, and taxes.

Fifteen minutes later Gus and Shawn sat at a long wooden table surrounded by college yearbooks.

“Here we go,” Gus said, starting on his fourth book, “this is the year the drama club performed Twelfth Night.”

"That's it." Shawn snapped his fingers. "Gimmie." Shawn flipped through the pages until he found the one he wanted. "Ha!" he crowed, jabbing at a photograph triumphantly. "Check it out. First row, center.” He raised his voice. “And… the Tony Crazy Escape award goes to…Little Miss Psycho herself."

"That's Allison!" Gus exclaimed. Several people shushed them from nearby study carrels. He lowered the yearbook and pointed. “That’s Allison,” he said again, this time in a whisper.

“Yes,” Shawn agreed, “but I think you need glasses,” he jabbed a finger onto a mousy girl hiding in the corner of the group photo, “’cause _that_ _’_ _s_ Stella.”

Gus jumped in place and Shawn did a brief victory dance while hugging the yearbook to his chest.

After a moment of jubilation, during which they earned several more annoyed glares, Gus looked at Shawn. “So, what do we do now?”

Shawn smiled.  “We do what we’re great at. We steal the spotlight.”

* * *

 

**Chapter 7**

Shawn and Gus tried to walk stealthily as they entered the empty Fernando Moncada Theatre. The building had gone out of use just after Allison’s drama troupe had put on their performance of Twelfth Night. Now dark, abandoned, and dusty with neglect, the Moncada was the perfect place for a showdown with a kidnapping psycho and her new apprentice.  Also, Gus thought, as he looked around at the Mission Revival style architecture, it would make a good venue for community theatre. Or maybe a trendy art gallery.

"I still think we should have called Lassiter," Gus whispered.

Shawn swallowed the sharp bite of pain that shot through his chest at the mention of Lassiter’s name. "Pfft," he scoffed, trying to sound lighthearted. "Where's he gotten on this? Nowhere, that's where.” He squinted into the gloom, trying to see through the dust suspended in what little light there was, his ears straining for the sound of a crying baby. His crying baby. “You and me, buddy. We're all over it."

The words had barely left his lips when something heavy made contact with the back of his skull and everything went dark.

***

"I don’t feel all over it, Shawn.” Gus stated, swiveling as best he could with his arms shackled above his head.

They were backstage, now, and it looked like the theatre was rotting around them—the stage was dusty and full of holes, the curtains faded and moth-eaten. Unfortunately, the ropes that bound them looked brand-new. Gus tracked them with his gaze up to the ceiling, around a series of pulleys, and down again to sandbags that looked as though they weighed more than both him and Shawn combined. He twisted his hands, his wrists chafing against the metal restraints, and squinted up at his watch.  He pressed a few buttons and the watch face glowed to life. It was 9:40 pm. They hadn’t been out long.

“This place is awful.” Gus reconsidered his thoughts about the trendy art gallery . Perhaps they should tear it down and build some condos.

Shawn didn’t respond to his comment, but hung motionless beside him.  Gus lashed out with a leg, kicking Shawn’s immobile body.  He swung slightly, grimacing at the weight it put on his wrists, and managed a second, stronger kick.

“Ow!” Shawn’s head came up and he wriggled as if trying to evade a third attack.  “Uncle. Uncle. I give up. It’s bad enough that I’m humiliated and helpless, do we have to stoop to kicking?”

“This place is awful,” Gus reiterated, relieved that Shawn was alive to hear his complaint.

“Agreed.” Shawn twisted energetically, trying to pull himself free of his restraints and, failing that, to turn toward Gus.  “It’s a little Phantom of The Opera. Although it's still well below the standard as evil lairs go. At least there are no meathooks.”

Gus rolled his eyes. "Who does meathooks anymore?"

“The cannibal family from Texas Chainsaw, the cannibal men from Wrong Turn, and any number of psychos from those Hostel movies." Shawn smirked. "You may kowtow to my superiority any time."

Gus scowled at him. "Just because you've watched every movie on FearNet—“ The distinct creak of footsteps creak sounded behind them and they twirled, panicked, trying to pinpoint the source.  Allison and Stella had walked onstage. 

It was showtime.

Shawn tilted his head. A torrent of details washed over his brain as they approached.  Allison had stopped dying her hair. She’d gained weight, but it was mostly muscle. She’d lost some of her tan, probably spent a lot of time inside, hiding from the police.  Stella was three years younger than her cousin. She walked like a dancer. And the most important detail of all: she was carrying Charlotte, who looked confused but unharmed.

Charlotte spied Shawn immediately, and her face lit up. “Papa!” She squirmed in Stella’s arms and reached out toward him.

“Shhh,” Stella patted Charlotte’s back gently.  “It’s okay, baby.” And then, just as Shawn was sighing with relief that Charlotte at least seemed to be well-treated, she added “Mommy’s here.” Shawn felt goosebumps run up his spine.  Whatever went on tonight, he vowed that Allison and Stella were not going to exit stage right with his baby.

“Amanda Cowley.” Shawn glanced at Gus’s watch.  It was almost ten. He just had to keep them talking as long as possible.

“It's _Allison_ , you human fortune cookie. Allison!”

Good. That ought to be a thorn in her inflated ego.

“Of course,” Shawn nodded. “I must have confused you with one of my _other_ completely psycho stalkers.”

“I'm not your _stalker_.” Allison looked offended. “I'm your _nemesis_.”

“I don't recall approving your application,” Shawn said. He turned his head and looked at Gus who shrugged as much as was possible under the circumstances.

“You don't apply to be someone's nemesis, Shawn.” Allison scowled at him.

“Mine do. I have a form on our website.”

“He does,” Gus confirmed.

“I get about thirty applications a year. I turn most of them down. And pass them on to Lassie, of course. So, far be it from me to crush your nemesising dreams, Allison, but,” he paused and looked to Gus. “Nemesising? Is that correct?”

“I would have said 'crush your dreams of acting as my nemesis.' It avoids having to use nemesis as a verb.”

“That doesn't really answer the question though, does it,” Shawn objected. “Is it nemesissing? Nemesizing? Nemesorcery?”

“I don't know, Shawn. I'm not a Latin scholar.”

“My point is,” Shawn raised his voice and returned to the matter at hand, “that there is a _process_ here, and we can't have you skipping ahead in the line. What would the other wannabes say?”

“Can it, Shawn," Allison snapped, and before Shawn could protest or promise cooperation, she had reached over, seized a sizable chunk of Charlotte's hair between her fingers, and yanked.

"No!" Shawn lunged, then yelped in pain as the shackles cut sharply into his wrists. There was a beat of silence as Charlotte sucked breath; then her howls of pain echoed off the theater’s bare ceiling and walls.

"Fucking—“ Shawn lurched again. "All right. All right. I'm listening."

"Good," Allison said primly. She walked over to Shawn and brushed the tuft of newly emancipated red hair over his cheek. "I don't want to have to resort to any...violence."

"You're crazy," Gus said, sounding shocked.

Allison shrugged. "Some say."

"Allison—” Stella was struggling with Charlotte, who was arching and kicking as she shrieked. "She’s being difficult again, Allie.”

"God!" Allison snarled. “A crying baby ruins every performance.” She stalked over to Stella and snatched Charlotte away from her. Holding the toddler firmly around the middle, she headed for the wings. "Idiot. Why do I have to do everything myself?"

"HEY!" Shawn shouted. "Where are you taking her?"

"She’s earned a time out in the quiet room," Allison shouted back, over her shoulder. "So she can CALM DOWN!"

"Please—“ Shawn strained against the ropes. "Don't hurt her. At the very least brainwash her so you can all rob banks together."

“Yeah!” Gus shouted toward Allison’s retreating back.  “Think how cute she’d look in a little beret!”

Stella gave him a dark look before turning to follow Allison. "Cooperate," she said, "and we won't have to hurt anyone."

Shawn shouted. When he ran out of swear words and ugly names for Allison and Stella, he resorted to nursery rhymes and names of Disney characters. Then he went back to swearing. After ten minutes, during which Gus's enthusiastic reinforcement shouting had waned to occasional whimpers, Allison and Stella reappeared.

Shawn straightened up. "Where is she?" he demanded.

Stella held up a small video baby monitor. On the screen was what appeared to be a tiny broom closet. Charlotte was just visible in the corner, standing with both hands against the door, her mouth open in a silent, unhappy wail. "Safe," she said.

Shawn took a deep breath. Safe, no. He’d spotted at least two containers of liquid in that closet that would require a hospital trip if Charlotte drank them.  But she was definitely safer there than with these Psycho-Moms. He twisted in Gus’s direction. The glowing watch face read 10:09.

“So what's the plan?” he stage-whispered to Gus.

“Plan?” Gus protested. “Why am I the one that's supposed to have a plan?”

“Oh please. You have a plan worked out in case of fire, earthquake and tidal wave. You seriously can’t tell me that kidnapping never made your list.”

“Fire, earthquakes and tidal waves pose a real threat. How was I supposed to predict we'd get kidnapped by the flunky of a former antagonist?”

“Flunky?” Allison raged. “I am not a flunky!”

Gus gave her a cold glance from under his eyelids. “Could have fooled me.”

“I have to agree with Allison on this one,” Shawn said. “I see her as more of a minion. All the Yinnites are minions. Maybe lackeys.”

“Lackeys have uniforms,” Gus pointed out. “They’re like hench-men. I stand by my original assessment. Flunky.”

“The thing I don't get,” Shawn said. “Is what your goal is. You're not really carrying on the Yin/Yang tradition. I mean, where are the cryptic notes and riddles? Where's the ticking stopwatch, the overarching themes? Your evil plans have none of that. At the very least, you could imprison us in a giant hourglass that slowly fills with sand. And that’s just off the top of my head. Are you even trying?”

“You forget, Shawn, I majored in Romantic History.” Allison put her arms behind her back and marched back and forth in front of them: a General assessing the troops.  “You're the protagonist in the tragic love story I've built for you.” She smiled, and Shawn could see the insanity dancing behind her eyes. “Your emotional pain is my work of art.”

“Have you tried sculpture?” Shawn asked. “A little papier mache?”

“This is exactly the sort of thing that happens when you cut arts funding in schools,” Gus noted primly.

“What about you, Skipper?” Shawn addressed Stella. “Are you just as tagging along with Forensic Unit Barbie here, or is there a whole Spice Girls troupe of wannabes waiting in the wings?”

“This is _my_ show,” Allison said with satisfaction.  “I’m calling the shots.”

“Right,” Shawn said. “I forgot how you hog the spotlight.”

“Just like in Twelfth Night,” Gus added.  “When you played Viola, the aristocrat disguised as a page, while Stella played Maria, the servant girl.”

Allison smiled. “We both went out for the part of Viola. But _I_ was the one that got it.” Stella opened her mouth, then closed it again. Shawn could almost see the wedge he’d made between them.  He needed to drive it home.

“I’m willing to bet you didn’t win it fair and square though,” Shawn said, twisting to face Stella. “Amirite?”

"I always wondered about that co—“ Stella started, but broke off when Allison slapped her sharply in the back of the head.

"Shut up," she ordered.

Stella looked at her, an expression of frank shock on her face. "You can't do that," she said.

"Who says?" Allison smacked her again. This time, Stella caught her wrist and twisted.

"Ow!" Allison shrieked.

"I am sick of you always bossing me around," Stella said, twisting harder. **“** Just like when we were little. Always the center of attention. Prima ballerina. I’m sick of it.”

Allison fell to her knees, trying to accommodate the angle of her arm. She swung at Stella with her free hand. “Let _go_!”

Stella's lips were drawn back in a snarl that reminded Shawn, illogically, of Cujo. She dodged Allison's fist. “And I’m sick—” she grabbed Allison’s hair with her free hand, “of fucking _babysitting_.” She wrenched Allison's arm sharply. There was a dull snap, then Allison's shrill scream of pain.

"Look what you made me do," Stella said coldly.

Allison screamed again. Her hand dangled horribly from a grotesque extra joint in her forearm. "You bitch. You bitch."

Stella aimed a hard kick at Allison's hip, and Allison went flying. She curled on the floor, cradling her injured arm and howling.

"And you." She addressed Shawn, walking toward him and putting both hands behind her back. "I. Am not. A. Wannabe."

There was the soft sound of metal sliding against leather, and then she brought her hands out in front of her.

"That's—“ Gus swallowed hard. "That's a really big knife."

"Yeah," Stella said. "You like it?" She grinned suddenly, sickeningly, and then she lunged at him.

"GUS!" Shawn cried, and then there was a gunshot, and Stella was cartwheeling to one side. Staggering. Crumpling. Gracefully, like a dancer.

"I'd say that's about enough of that," O'Hara said grimly, rushing across the stage toward the fallen suspect.

"Boy, am I glad to see you," Gus said, at the same time Shawn recovered from the shock and saw Lassiter.

"Get Charlotte," he shouted, kicking with both legs to indicate where Lassiter should go. "Over there. Hurry up. Hurry. Hurry."

Lassiter didn't need to be told twice. He took off backstage at a dead run, ignoring O'Hara's shout: "Carlton! Protocol!"

"Shut up! Shut up!" Shawn was shouting at O'Hara now, who was handcuffing a yelping Stella as McNab secured Allison. "Shut up for just one second."

"Don't tell my wife to shut up," Gus said crossly, but he said it quietly, and a moment later they all heard it.

"Dadddyyyyyyy..." Charlotte's thin shriek, and then her loud, furious crying.

Shawn sagged.  He felt every twinge of pain in his muscles now and the rush of emotions he’d been holding at bay threatened to surge up and engulf him.

* * *

Shawn and Gus sat in the SBPD bullpen, soft blankets draped over their shoulders, huddled over hot cups of coffee.  Their arms ached but the painkillers the paramedics have given them were beginning to take effect. On a blanket at their feet Charlotte sat happily playing with a tiny bear dressed as a cop. Shawn didn’t want to take his eyes off her, afraid that if he looked away for even a moment, that the image of her here, safe and smiling, would turn out to be a dream.

Lassiter loomed over them, frowning furiously. In separate interrogation rooms down the hall, Allison and Stella were turning on one another.  Hopefully, Lassiter thought, their confessions would put them away for a long time.  How he was going to write the report so that he didn’t come out sounding like an idiot was an issue he had yet to face.  If he spilled the beans about what really went down—waking handcuffed the hotel room, his daughter’s kidnapping, not having recused himself from the case, and Shawn’s putting himself in harm’s way—then he couldn’t see how he had a snowball’s chance in hell of being appointed Chief.

He turned his frown on Gus, trying not to be angry. His daughter was safe. His test results had just come back negative. And his chance at being Chief, well…the damage to his career was his own fault, not Guster’s.  If it hadn’t been for him and Shawn, they’d still be looking for Allison. And Charlotte. He should be grateful to both of them.

“So your plan,” he said, his voice betraying no sense of gratitude, “was to let Allison isolate you, alone and helpless, in a dilapidated theatre? Am I getting this right?” He bent down and picked up Charlotte.

Gus shook his head, looking offended. “My GPS tracker watch was the plan. I hit the panic button as soon as I woke up. I knew you and Jules wouldn’t be far behind. We just had to keep them talking until you got there.”

Shawn stood and strolled to the window.  Outside, a dozen or so reporters milled about, some lugging camera gear, waiting for an announcement on the kidnapping.

Chief Vick leaned out of her office. “Mr. Spencer, Mr. Guster.  May I see you in my office a moment?” It didn’t sound like a request.

Gus stood, and he and Shawn made brief eye contact and gave each other a nod before walking into Vick’s office. Lassiter sat at his desk, letting Charlotte hit randomly at the keyboard, ignoring the jumble of nonsense letters that appeared on his report. He was torn between telling the whole story and trying to create some work of fiction that didn’t make him sound like someone who should be knocked down to traffic.

Ten minutes later Chief Vick emerged from her office followed by Shawn and Gus and her mayoral election entourage.  Sitting at his desk, Lassiter had abandoned any pretense of writing his report and was instead enjoying the warm heaviness of Charlotte, who had fallen asleep in his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder.

O’Hara came down the hall from interrogation and paused, staring down at her partner. “Why so glum?”

“It’s the report.” Lassiter sighed.

O’Hara smiled.  I wouldn’t worry about that,” she said.  “I suspect that Shawn and Gus have that covered.”

Lassiter looked at her suspiciously through narrowed eyes.  “Covered how?”

“Detective Lassiter!” Vick called out as she approached.

Lassiter’s pulse raced.  O’Hara reached out and took Charlotte from his arms. The little girl murmured and stuck her thumb in her mouth, but didn’t wake.

Vick was smiling, but that could mean anything.

“Mr. Spencer and Mr. Guster have been telling me how you hired them to run a clever end game on Allison Cowley,” Vick said, “trapping her and her accomplice at the Moncada.” She looked at him expectantly.

Lassiter stared, saying nothing. It was a tempting story. It was the kind of plan a future Chief might have had.  But it wasn’t the truth.

“Come on,” Shawn encouraged him.  “Don’t be shy.” He chuckled.  “Lassie felt that luring the kidnappers to the abandoned theatre was the best option.”

“Especially for keeping innocent civilians out of harm’s way,” Gus added.

“And,” Shawn added, “He and Jules were ready for our signal to move in.” He winked at O’Hara.

“Well Carlton,” Vick said, her smile bright and camera-ready, “given your recent coup, I think this was an excellent time to announce my candidacy and put your name forward as Chief.” She raised her eyebrows and looked at Lassiter.  “Don’t you agree?”

Lassiter nodded his head curtly, trying not to show the relief and elation he felt.  He straightened his tie and gave a tug on his suit jacket. “Let’s do it!”

As Vick headed for the front doors, Lassiter turned on Shawn. “What the hell, Shawn?”

Shawn smiled.  “You’re welcome.” He and Gus did a congratulatory fist bump. “We thought this called for the Lieutenant Bogomil maneuver.”

“The what?” Lassiter demanded, glancing anxiously over his shoulder to where Vick was applying last-minute touchups to her hair and makeup.

“The Lieutenant Bogomil maneuver,” Gus said, “At the end of Beverly Hills Cop.”

“The first one,” Shawn supplied.

Gus nodded.  “Bogomil covers for Axel, Taggart and Rosewood by fabricating a story for Police Chief Hubbard in which all of their actions had prior approval. We simply explained to Chief Vick that the whole plan had been your idea.”

Shawn wrapped an arm around Lassiter’s back and steered him gently in the direction of the doorway, where the press conference was about to start.  “And the real beauty of this plan—apart from you maybe getting to be Chief—is that Psych gets paid.” He looked at Gus. “Which is a nice bonus, I think.”

“Agreed,” Gus added, thinking of the bill he still owed for the porch construction.

Vick smiled as they approached.  “If you can tear yourself away for a few moments,” she said, “I’ve got an announcement to make and I’d like you by my side.”

“Absolutely!” Shawn said, slapping a hand on Vick’s shoulder.  “I’m here for you, Chief.” He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. “I’ve written a speech supporting your candidacy. It’s more like a few notes, really. I need fifteen, twenty minutes maximum.” He turned to Gus. “How do you spell dominatrix?”

Chief Vick raised a quelling hand. “I was talking to Detective Lassiter.”

She and Lassiter turned and stepped forward through the doors and into the glare of the cameras.

* * *

 

**Chapter 8: Epilogue**

“Shawn, you do realize that I have negative associations with being led to an unknown location?” Lassiter craned his head, trying to see something besides the tie Shawn had secured over his eyes. He wasn’t entirely sure that it was appropriate for an interim Police Chief to allow himself to be blindfolded and led around like this. If asked, he supposed he could always claim it was part of a training exercise of some kind. Although at the moment it felt more like a hazing ritual. He squeezed his left arm against his holster and felt the reassuring heaviness of his Glock.

Shawn chuckled softly as he steered Lassiter forward. “I’m going to break that association.”

Lassiter chuckled to himself.  Given how hard Shawn had worked to break his negative association with handcuffs, today might even be enjoyable.

Shawn patted Lassiter’s shoulder. “Step up.”

Ignoring the feeling that he was about to be hung or shot, Lassiter stepped up, and a moment later he felt the cool evening breeze across his face. Crickets chirped. They were outside.

“Know where we are?” Shawn sounded gleeful.

“Well…” Lassiter thought. Shawn had picked him up in the Echo, and shortly after blindfolding him, had driven for forty-five to fifty minutes. The car hadn’t stopped or slowed much, so they were at least thirty miles from the station. They’d parked in a gravel lot, and there were no sounds of traffic, so they were somewhere in the countryside. And they’d walked through a building that sounded large and empty—t heir footsteps had echoed. He’d heard quiet murmurs from a distance, so there were a few other people present. And – He sniffed the air.

“Horse manure,” he said out loud. “Very faint. A farm? Old Sonora?”

“Close.” Shawn pulled off the blindfold.

No. Not a farm, and definitely not an old Western town.

“It isn’t a balcony,” Shawn said regretfully, “but I was hoping this would be enough.”

Lassiter gazed out at the twilit hills of the vineyard, at the sculpted railing of the large patio, and at the unlit strands of tiny lights strung along the winery’s red, Spanish tile roof.

“It’s enough,” he said, bewildered.

From the doorway, two middle-aged women, both clad in chef’s whites, were gazing at them with smiles on their faces.

“Who are they?” Lassiter said, nodding in their direction.

When the women saw that Lassiter had noticed them, they looked at Shawn guiltily and ducked back inside.

“Ina and Amelia,” Shawn said, grinning broadly now. “They own this place. I called in a favor.”

“A favor?” Lassiter repeated. “For wh—”

But Shawn had gestured at the doorway, and then the strands of lights turned on, and Lassiter found that he didn’t need to ask anything else.

In giant straggling Christmas-lit letters the words “WIL U MARRY ME?” blazed to life against the roof.

“Oh dear,” Shawn said mildly. “I forgot an L. I assure you, Lassie, I meant this for you, not for the goateed star of _Stand By Me_ and _The Guild_.”

“I—”  Lassiter’s mouth was dry. Blood pounded in his ears. Now, after all their arguments, after having given up hope that Shawn’s fear of commitment would ever change, now…this.

“Wait.” Shawn fumbled in his pocket. “Before you lecture me on the hazards of climbing on rooftops, just let me—p” He pulled out a tiny box and dropped to one knee.

“For God’s sake.” Lassiter reached down and hauled Shawn to his feet. He would not have photos leaked to the Courier in which Santa Barbara’s acting Chief of Police was proposed to as if he were in a Julia Roberts film.“Get up.”

Shawn looked up at him, crestfallen. “You didn’t even let me open it!”

“Don’t need to,” Lassiter said. He pulled Shawn toward him and covered his pout with a crushing kiss. He didn’t need to see whatever hideously ostentatious ring Shawn had picked out to know what he wanted.

“Wow,” Shawn breathed, once they’d broken apart. “That was nice.”

“You’re an idiot, Spencer,” Lassiter said, cradling Shawn’s face in both hands. “But you’re my idiot.”

“So, that’s a yes, then?” Shawn’s smile masked the trepidation in his eyes, but only barely.

“That is most definitely—” Lassiter growled, leaning in for another kiss— “a yes.”

Maybe Yin was right, Shawn thought.  Maybe there were no freeze-frames in real life.  But in that moment, with Lassiter’s arms around him and his lips ground against his own, it certainly felt like one. Right up until a surprisingly heavy body crashed into their legs.

Shawn looked down to see Charlotte’s, wearing a child harness, with Gus at the end of the tether. She clutched Shawn’s calves in a clumsy hug.

“Papa, hi, Papa,” she said, beaming.

“Hello Sunshine!”  He ruffled her curly red hair and turned to Gus.  “Tell me you’re not auditioning for Sled Dogs 2.”

“She would look adorable in a little red snow suit,” Lassiter allowed, dropping to one knee and planting a kiss on Charlotte’s cheek to cover up the awkwardness he felt at Gus’s sudden appearance.

“Agreed.”  Shawn looked down the hall. “Is the thing ready in the place with the guys?”

“Yes, Captain Vague, it’s ready. See you there.” Gus turned Charlotte around and headed back the way they’d come.

Lassiter watched them disappear through the double doors, and now he could make out the sound of familiar voices and Juliet’s laugh. He turned to Shawn.

“When you asked me to marry you, you didn’t mean...right now, did you?”

“No.  God no!” Shawn laughed.  He hooked an arm through Lassiter’s and gently led him in the direction of the voices. “This is just a little wine tasting so I can announce the happy news.  There’s still the engagement party, then there’s all the fun of the gift registry, and the photo session, and shopping for suits—”

“Gifts?” Lassiter tensed. In his experience the receiving of gifts was not always a happy occasion.

“Relax.” Shawn smiled. “I dropped some pretty big hints.”

“Hints like what?” He thought back to the box of snowglobes he’d had to drop off at Goodwill after one of Shawn’s gift-related hints. 

“Sig,” Shawn said “Glock. Ammo.” He looped his arm through Lassiter’s and turned toward the party.. 

Lassiter’s eyes lit up and he smiled broadly.

“Well then,” he said. “let’s not keep them waiting.”

 


End file.
